There's No Place Like Stalag 13
by Goldleaf83
Summary: Why on earth did Hogan choose to leave in "Hogan, Go Home"? And why did he change his mind and decide to stay?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: As requested quite a while back by several readers of "Swapping Generals" (my rewrite of the episode "The General Swap"), this is a re-visioning of "Hogan, Go Home," an episode which some fans have found unsatisfactory in its portrayal of Hogan's willingness to leave early in the episode. This story follows the plot of the original episode fairly closely; it's essentially the episode from Hogan's point of view, including a number of missing scenes, to try to explain why Hogan acts as he does in the episode and to give the episode more consistency. Thus naturally a number of lines from the original episode are sprinkled throughout this story, mixed with other dialogue of my own invention. You don't have to have read "Swapping Generals" to understand this story, though this is intended to correspond with my rewrite of the other episode, particularly my final chapter on General Barton. Familiarity with the original television episode will be a help, though._

_I have loved __Hogan's Heroes__ since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy, although I have taken the liberty of adding a few minor characters of my own to the original set. And though I borrow the plot and some of the dialogue written by Bill Davenport in his memorable __Hogan's Heroes__ episode "Hogan, Go Home," I acknowledge the ownership of the creators and writer and of Bing Crosby Productions, and I intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story._

ooOoo

How on earth had his life gotten so completely screwed up so quickly, Hogan wondered furiously, as Corporal Hahn pushed him roughly through the door and he stumbled into the cooler cell. As the door clanged shut behind him, Hogan folded his arms around his chest and glared at the far wall, refusing to turn around and give Hahn the satisfaction of seeing his face as he was locked in. The key scraped, turning the lock, and Hogan gritted his teeth, then a long moment of silence followed, during which Hogan stubbornly kept his back turned. Finally, the booted footsteps stomped off down the corridor, receding to the short stairway that led back outside from the lower cell floor.

Once he heard the outer door to the compound open and shut, Hogan finally swung around, glowering at the barred doorway. He wasn't in an isolation cell, so he could see out through the door. The problem was that anyone in the corridor could see in equally easily. That was the reason why he and his men had never bothered to create an access to this particular cell—a short-sighted decision that meant that he was really stuck here, unable to communicate with his men, until Klink decided to let him out. The question was, would his hasty arrangement with Newkirk actually work to get him out of here? If not, he was probably going to be looking at these four silent gray walls for quite a while.

Though that might be preferable to listening to Crittendon.

Too angry and restless to sit down on the hard wood bunk, he began pacing the small cell, reviewing what had led up to him getting thrown in here. Not two days ago, he'd been in command of an elite secret espionage and sabotage team; now he was in effect demoted, plus stuck in the cooler for who knew how long. He was mad at London, mad at Klink, mad at Crittendon, and—above all—mad at himself.

_It's your own stupid fault_, he castigated himself, reaching back in memory to two nights earlier….

ooOoo

He was so tired. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs as he raised the pointer on the diagram of the Kessling refinery, going over the placement of the bombs he'd painstakingly worked out so that they could take out the munitions train along with the refinery. But he had to make sure that everyone understood the strategy of the layout and their own role, since timing was going to be crucial.

The plan had taken an immense amount of measuring and figuring to find the right placement that would ensure achieving both objectives. (When he was a kid he never would have believed that wars involved so much math.) So by the time they'd gotten it all worked out the hour was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it, with only a couple of hours left to try to get any sleep before morning roll call. But everyone's mood was good, even his own; the double goal on this mission seemed doable and complete success very likely. It had just taken a lot of hours to get it all nailed down, and coming on top of several late nights for other missions this week he was really tired. Kinch had offered earlier to close things up downstairs, and Hogan was going to let him do it for once.

Exchanging goodnights with his men, he wearily hauled himself up the ladder and then moved quietly through the common room to his office, nodding to Saunders and Addison who were still up and on watch, standard practice when the main team was in the tunnels below. Closing the door to his quarters gave Hogan the usual sense of mild relief, momentarily shutting out his duty. He shucked off his uniform, folding it and putting it on his footlocker where it would be handy in the morning, and pulled on his pajamas. Then he hauled himself up into the upper bunk, where he arranged his blanket over himself as he stretched out. Consciously, deliberately, he relaxed his tight muscles, one group at a time. Lassitude overcame him quickly. Thank God this wasn't going to be one of those nights when he couldn't stop his mind running. . . .

"He's gonna be pretty sore about it, all right." Kinch's voice, right outside his door.

_Dear lord, now what?_

"But he's never got this kind of a crazy order before." That was LeBeau.

That didn't sound good. Hogan raised his head slightly, then let it thud back against the thin wood shavings mattress.

Newkirk said, "I think we ought to let him sleep a little while longer, you know, before we tell him."

As he forced himself to sit up, then swing down from the bunk, grimacing as his bare feet hit the floor, Hogan wasn't sure whether to be irritated that they'd think of delaying giving him orders that had come through, or moved by Newkirk's apparent solicitude.

As he padded over to his locker and pulled on his robe, he heard Newkirk add, "You know what a nasty temper he's got when he's tired."

That tipped him unequivocally into seriously annoyed.

Carter broke in next. "Yeah, and he was beat tonight," he said as Hogan started to pull the door open. Oblivious, Carter went on, "Boy, he'd eat us alive if we woke him up right now with a message like this." Hogan opened the office door fully and leaned on his arm against the door frame, looking at the backs of the four men that comprised the inner circle of his unit, gathered near the stove. "I'd like him to sleep as long as he can," Carter finished.

"I'd like that too, Carter." Hogan didn't bother to disguise the sarcasm in his voice this time and had the satisfaction of watching all four of them jump.

And then Kinch handed him the piece of paper that changed his life: "You are relieved of duty as Commanding Officer of Special Unit 42136 and directed to report to Washington for a hero's welcome and reassignment to special service for a three months' bond-selling tour."


	2. Chapter 2

Hogan shook his head at the memory of seeing that set of orders. The contents had caught him so completely off guard that he'd yielded in the surprise of that moment to the siren call of home. He had told Kinch to acknowledge the orders and get the details of his transfer, without even a second thought.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_. . . .

But it had been _so damned tempting_. To _finally_ get out of imprisonment. And not just a temporary night's reprieve, but for real. To be truly free. Free from barbed wire fences, from constant surveillance, from interrogation, from cells and chains and handcuffs and strip searches and all the other miserable indignities and humiliations, major and minor, that he had experienced at one time or another since his capture, and were always a threat. To not be constantly on guard, to be able to truly relax. To be able to _sleep_. To not be responsible for hundreds of men's lives. To not be risking who-knew-how-many of them nightly on crazy missions that had only a paper-thin margin for error.

Even now, pacing this small cell after all that had happened in the last day, he had to admit privately that the responsibility of this command often weighed on him as a heavy burden. He was especially tired of London expecting him to pull a rabbit out of some hat every time they wanted some impossible-to-get bit of information or they required his team to handle some difficult target that they couldn't manage themselves. When looking at a new set of orders, he sometimes wondered if London even remembered that he was in a prison camp, with the myriad restrictions that went with it.

Nevertheless, at London's command, for nearly two years he and his team had blown up ammo dumps, bridges, factories, fuel stations, trains, planes, and truck convoys; they had smuggled out of Nazi Germany both critical information and actual people, including dozens of downed Allied airmen and escaping POWs, several defecting German scientists—and for pete's sake even a German field marshal just a few weeks ago to swap for a captured American general. While he got a definite kick out of successfully foiling any Nazi plans, the pace of missions was grueling and relentless. As soon as they finished one assignment, London was yapping at them to do another. Sometimes even _before_ he'd finished one, they had another project that they wanted him to start moving on. Of course, it wasn't like London had tons of other military operatives on the ground in the middle of Germany to turn to—but he still frequently had the sense that the brass at Headquarters had no idea how much they were constantly asking of him and his team. Every time they succeeded, they were "rewarded" with more work.

Then there were all the additional missions they'd carried out just because he'd stumbled over them or they'd fallen into his lap: rescuing French art works and heisting French gold from the Krauts, for example. While those jobs hadn't been on London's laundry list, he had felt each time that he couldn't let the situation lie when he knew he could do something about it.

When he succeeded, he got some absent-minded thanks; more than once when he didn't accomplish some impossible request for Headquarters, or didn't get it done as fast as they wanted, he got a tart reprimand over the radio. He was forever working on never enough sleep and seldom enough supplies—not to mention ever-increasing Nazi attention.

Usually, the moment he had satisfied London's demands he had to turn around and placate Klink and his guards or lull into complacency Burkhalter, Hochstetter, or any other overly inquisitive German officer. And the more odd things happened around Stalag 13, the harder that was getting to do. He was juggling almost more balls than he could count, and the fear that he was going to miss and drop one haunted his dreams nightly—when he actually got the chance to try to sleep, at least.

So when he'd seen that set of orders to go home, the idea of escaping from all of that had been irresistible right at that moment.

_Stupid, stupid,_ _**stupid**_. . . .

The war was nowhere near won—not even close yet, with no Allied invasion of Europe beyond Italy so far. And he _knew_ he was making a difference here in the outcome of the war. Objectively speaking, he almost certainly had a bigger and more direct impact stationed here at Stalag 13 in the heart of the Third Reich than he'd had when he had commanded the 504th in the early days of American involvement in the conflict.

But the pace of his underground operation was exhausting, and not just for him; his men were just as tired too. And they were the ones who made it all happen, who took his crazy plans and made them work, putting in all the hours digging tunnels, sewing fake uniforms and civilian outfits, stealing and forging documents, producing (or stealing) explosives and then carrying and positioning them to blow up all their assigned targets. He might be the front man, facing the Krauts up close and personal, and the creative mind designing their missions, but Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter did the bulk of the heavy lifting on their assignments, helped out by the rest of the men of Barracks 2 and production teams made up from the rest of the camp. He couldn't have asked for a more talented, dedicated, and loyal crew than the group he'd found here at Stalag 13.

And he planned to leave them behind. All stuck here in the camp he wanted out of so badly.

_Stupid __**idiot**_. . . .

The worst of it was remembering Kinch's look of shocked betrayal as he'd told him to get back on the horn to London and get all the details, an expression echoed on Newkirk's, LeBeau's and Carter's faces as his reaction sank in.

They hadn't expected him to leave them.

—No, it was far worse than that. They had actually expected him to _not_ leave them. . . .

He paused in his pacing and ran his hand over his mouth uncomfortably at the memory, recalling the aftermath of his decision the following morning.

ooOoo

Lying back down in his bunk, his tired body thrumming with joy, Hogan let himself think of home in ways he usually suppressed, imagining seeing it for real for the first time in nearly four years. The last time he had been home was June of 1940, just before his transfer to England. Nearly four years ago now. His parents always wrote that all was well . . . but they were both in their upper sixties now, and anything could go wrong for either one of them at any time. He worried about them. If anything was wrong—short of one of them dying—he doubted they'd tell him about it for precisely that reason.

Of course, he played the same game. They never heard anything but funny bits of life at Stalag 13. He couldn't, of course, break security by the smallest hint of what he was really up to. But he also self-censored ordinary problems from them, just to put their minds at ease: little things like needing a new razor blade so that he wasn't showing five o-clock shadow at three in the afternoon. He wondered if that tactic really worked for them.

Probably not.

In his mind he wandered through his parents' house in Bridgeport, imagining his mother cooking in the bright yellow kitchen, his father digging the garden and flower beds to get them ready for spring planting, both of his parents resting in the wicker chairs on the south side of the back yard maple tree to enjoy sunlit spring breezes, his brothers and sister and nieces and nephews gathered around the big dining room table for Sunday dinner. . . . That last image was fuzzier—he wasn't quite sure what all the kids looked like at this point, after close to four years away from home. But he would know soon. He had been yearning to see them all, so much, for so long, hoping he would survive to do it. That had certainly looked dubious too many times in the past four years. He remembered that final goodbye, when he was setting off for England and a war that would undoubtedly take years to fight. His parents and siblings had all known that he might not come back. And he had privately wondered if they would all be there if he did. But now he would come home, and they would all be there. He slipped easily into sleep for once, floating on the anticipatory joy of reunion.

Waking the next morning, even after such a short night, his good mood persisted as he got up and dressed, his eyes smiling at himself in the small cracked mirror as he carefully shaved. He failed to notice that the usual morning knock on his door, followed by Kinch's "roll call, Colonel," was more subdued than usual. But what he couldn't miss noticing when he came into the common room, smiling affably, was that no one—absolutely no one—met his eyes. Half of the seemed to be already outside; Olsen was getting something out of his footlocker; Newkirk was busy putting on his big winter coat, LeBeau wrapping his scarf around his neck; Kinch was halfway out the door already, with Carter dogging his footsteps. Hogan's smile faded as he followed them out to stand in their usual places in front of the barracks.

An oppressive silence weighed heavily over the men from his barracks, though he could hear the usual grumbling about the chilly morning and idle comments about the guards filtering around the corner from the men of Barracks 5.

Even Carter apparently had nothing cheerful to say about how at least the sun was shining. Glancing uneasily over his left shoulder to check on him, Hogan could see Carter standing in the second row of Barracks 2 prisoners, his hands tucked in his pockets, head drooping, staring silently at the ground. Just to Hogan's left, Newkirk stared stonily ahead to the Kommandantur, LeBeau's motionless beret barely visible just past his shoulders. Kinchloe, right behind Hogan as usual, was invisible.

Just as Klink appeared, Hogan wondered how many more times he'd be standing here—and then it occurred to him to wonder how many more times the rest of his men would be standing here. Months for certain. Maybe years. And who would be standing in his place with them?

His hands clenched tightly inside his pockets, as his stomach flipped unexpectedly. He drew in a deep breath of the chilly air to calm the sick uncertainty that had overtaken him, slowly releasing it in a light cloud of steam.

Having received Schultz's "All present and accounted for," Klink dismissed the prisoners but called Hogan over to him. The rest of the barracks shuffled off to the mess hall while Hogan got stuck listening as Klink yammered at him for the umpteenth time about getting his men to shave before roll call (as if there was time and space for that, with one sink between the fourteen of them), before starting in on a litany of complaints about the general state of the barracks and the litter scattered around the compound, and then moving on to warnings about the plans for spring gardens, how the tools would be carefully monitored, not to try any kinds of escapes . . . on and on and on. _I won't miss __this__,_ Hogan thought to himself grimly.

Finally, Klink dismissed him. But by the time he got to the mess hall, all the men from Barracks 2 had eaten and were gone. No one had lingered to eat with him.

It was late enough in the breakfast dining shift that there were a number of empty spots. Normally he would have joined men from another barracks, would have used such an opportunity to see how things were going and check on that group of men in greater detail than his schedule often allowed him to do. But he felt too cut off from normal camp business by London's orders from the night before, so he carried his tin plate to an unoccupied table end to think further about their implications.

He sat on the bench and stared at the cup of lukewarm ersatz coffee and accompanying black bread, unable to bring himself to try any of it. Recollections of his command at Stalag 13 rolled through his head, ricocheting off memories of home and family, like billiard balls on a pool table. He'd kept them separate in his head so long that he couldn't reconcile the two.

One exchange with Kinch kept returning, from just a few weeks back. Just before General Barton had been brought into camp, Kinch had asked him, "_Don't you ever wish it was you making that little trip back home?_" "_No sirree_," he'd answered, "_When I leave I'm walking right out that front gate_."*

At the time, he'd meant leaving the camp with all the rest of his men when the war was over. When the Allies had won. He hadn't foreseen any kind of transfer. After all, this wasn't the kind of command in which COs served for a while and then moved on.

—Except now, apparently, it was. He had done that plenty of times in his career before the war started, of course, but he had never worried about the men under his command once he'd left them. He had always known that another capable officer would take over his duties and see them carried out. And he had always looked forward to new assignments, new duties, new challenges, new planes to fly. . . . Once captured, he had worried about the 504th , who had made it home from that last mission and who hadn't . . . but still, he had known that Major Bailey, his second in command, would be an able replacement for him, would look after the men and planes in the squadron and see the missions done.

There was no one here to turn command over to, however. London would have to send someone.

Who?

Who would be the right person to manage this crazy operation that he had cobbled together?

He was guessing that it would be someone British, chosen by his handlers. But the British . . . well, a lot of the RAF officers he knew had been very by the book, a disciplined approach that certainly had its strengths and uses but wouldn't work well at Stalag 13. This operation needed someone looser, more flexible. . . .

Not that spit-and-polish London always understood that. They had let him know plenty of times that they were unhappy with his methods—though he had just replied acidly that they seemed happy enough with his results.

But of course it wouldn't be up to him to choose, or even recommend someone to take over here.

_"When I leave I'm walking right out that front gate."_ Well, he'd still have to do that, wouldn't he? He would have to leave camp openly somehow, in order to follow London's orders to return. He couldn't compromise the new CO of his . . . no, of _the_ operation by marring Klink's no escape record. He'd have to figure something out if he left.

No, _when_ he left.

. . . _If_ he left?

A burst of laughter from a group of men from Barracks 8 brought him back to himself. He stared at his uneaten bread, then forced himself to mechanically chew and swallow his rough ration. It tasted even more like sawdust than usual. Forcing the last of it down, he pushed himself to his feet. He managed a smile and a wave for the Barracks 8 group, then dumped his tin plate and cup to be washed and left the mess hall.

Unable to find it in himself to head directly back to the barracks and face his men, he took refuge in his duty to check in with Sergeant Wilson at the infirmary and see who in camp was sick with what.

Wilson looked up glumly from his desk when he walked in. "It's good to see you, Colonel. You've saved me a trip to find you."

"What's the problem?" Hogan asked, glancing over to check out the rows of single bunks that made up the infirmary. Most of them were empty, to his relief, with only one nearest to the stove occupied.

"I did inventory yesterday, sir. It didn't take me very long."

Hogan sighed inwardly, knowing what that meant: there hadn't been much to count.

Wilson fished in the drawer of the desk for his list as Hogan waited. The desk and the medic elicited an old memory from Hogan's early days at Stalag 13. While Wilson was giving him his first physical nearly two years ago, Hogan had glanced idly over at the sergeant's desk, mildly surprised the Germans had furnished the infirmary with such a substantial—if somewhat battered—piece of office furniture. Wilson had noticed and then diffidently asked him if he was going to commandeer the desk for his own office in the senior officer's quarters. Hogan had taken one look at the beat-up desk with its two large matching file drawers and knew that it was more needed where it was. Newkirk had offered to organize a desk for him so that he could use his quarters as an office and had come up (who knew from where) with the rough high bench and stool that Hogan still used. It occurred to the colonel that he still had never heard how the Englishman had organized it.

Hogan came out of his reverie when Wilson handed him a list of critical shortages.

"Any chance you can sweet-talk Klink into getting us more medical supplies, Colonel?" the medic asked plaintively. "Things are quiet at the moment, and warmer weather's coming, but camp's getting more crowded than it used to be. . . ."

The sergeant trailed off, but Hogan knew what he meant. Spring and summer meant the men spending more time outside, less time holed up in tight quarters, which generally meant they stayed healthier, with fewer colds and cases of flu and other infectious diseases. But still, given the increasing number of prisoners in the camp from the constant Allied air raids over Germany, epidemics could occur more easily too. Plus, with the men more active outside in the warmer weather, there were bound to be more minor injuries from playing sports during the exercise period. And of course, Wilson was as aware as Hogan was how much he and his supplies might be needed after any mission Hogan and his team came back from, or for any injured airmen they rescued. They had some supplemental supplies from London, but still. . . .

Hogan nodded, took the list, and ran his eye down it, knowing that before he left he had to persuade Klink into getting these supplies. Who knew if his replacement would be able to play Klink the right way to get what was needed? Hogan felt a small tremor run down his back, but he tucked the list into his interior jacket pocket, where it would be safe.

"I'll get them by hook or by crook," he promised Wilson—and himself.

"Thanks, Colonel." The medic gave him a lopsided smile. "I've always appreciated the way you look after this sort of thing, ever since you got here."

Hogan managed a smile back that he hoped disguised the way those words stabbed into him. Did that mean Wilson had heard the news? Or not?

"That's my job," he responded, as lightly as he could manage. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Corporal Landry's back with another chest infection," Wilson said, glancing over at the nearest occupied bunk. "Bronchitis. I'm working to try to keep it from turning into pneumonia again. But he's awake, if you want to visit a few minutes?"

Hogan nodded and went over to sit and visit with the corporal. Landry had been one of the lead diggers and major designers when they had initially been working on the tunnel network and had gotten caught in a bad cave-in a few months into the project. Although uninjured when they dug him out, he had nearly died a couple of weeks later when pneumonia set in, caused by all the dirt he had breathed in. Wilson had pulled him through that bout, but Landry's lungs seemed permanently compromised—this was the third time he had wound up back in the infirmary for lung problems since then. Wilson had forbidden him from going down in the tunnels again but suspected that the dusty compound and all the smoke in the barracks from the woodstoves and cigarettes were taking a toll on the corporal's lungs.

"Landry, you need to stop taking up bunk space here so regularly." Hogan winced inwardly at the inane line as soon as it was out of his mouth, but the young corporal perked up in response as he focused on the colonel.

Hogan took a seat on the bunk next to him. "We got mail last week. Did you hear anything from your folks?"

"Yes, sir, got a letter from my wife." Landry paused, gathering breath. "She had good news, got a job cooking at the hotel by the railroad."

"That sounds good. You've got a son too, don't you?" Hogan asked, after searching his memory for their last conversation and remembering Landry fishing out a photo of a child.

The young man, his eyes fever bright, smiled and reached for his wallet on the stool next to his bed. "Yes, sir, I sure do. Would you like to see his picture?" Hogan nodded and studied again the snapshot of the tow-headed little boy in overalls standing proudly next to a slim, pretty woman in a spotted dress as he listened to Landry tell several stories about his wife and their five-year-old son living in a small town in Pennsylvania coal country, in between the wheezes, gurgles, and deep racking coughs that punctuated his light chatter.

After a while Landry asked hesitantly, "Is everything going well, ah, down below, sir?"

Hogan nodded. "Yeah, we're doing all right. London has plenty of assignments for us, and we're getting done what we need to do." Security meant that he couldn't share more specific details, but Landry knew that and wasn't really asking for them. He just wanted—needed, perhaps—to hear that the operation was working, was doing what they'd hoped to accomplish when they first started working to create it.

Landry smiled wistfully, but didn't reply because a deep hacking cough abruptly shook his wiry frame. Hogan picked up the tin cup of water on the rough wood box next to the bed, handing it to him and helping him drink when the paroxysm eased enough that he could swallow safely. The water seemed to help: after sipping it carefully the spasm eased and the young man lay back panting in shallow breaths, worn out by the effort to breathe without coughing.

Hogan carefully put his hand on Landry's wrist, and when the corporal looked over at him in surprise he held his eyes. "We wouldn't have the tunnel system that we have if it weren't for you," he said quietly but firmly. "Don't ever forget that you made it all possible, the whole scheme."

Landry nodded and his smile shone in his eyes as he turned his wrist over to grasp Hogan's forearm lightly with his palm. "S'okay, Colonel. Was worth every bit of the effort." He took another wheezing breath, then added, "Don't worry about me, Colonel. I'm tough as an old hickory stump."

Hogan nodded back, squeezed gently, then said softly, "I know. Try to get some sleep, Corporal." Landry nodded, and he let his eyes close.

Hogan rose and crossed back over to Wilson, who had risen and put a pot of water on the stove. Probably to try to steam open Landry's lungs, Hogan realized. Landry began to cough again. Hogan hesitated, starting to turn back, but Wilson just shook his head and waved him on as he headed over to the bunk the colonel had just left. Hogan heaved a deep breath, then left the infirmary building, blinking in the suddenly inappropriate bright sunshine outside.

He had never liked doing infirmary visits, feeling vaguely uneasy around men who were sick, but he had also always been conscientious about doing his duty with them. He couldn't help wondering if his replacement would do this, would worry about Landry. How could an officer who hadn't been there during the mammoth effort of digging out and shoring up and extending the old mine network they had stumbled on back in 1942 possibly comprehend the amount of labor and ingenuity the job had required to make the tunnels safely usable? Or appreciate the men who had made it possible?

Hogan thought of Landry again, his cheerful smile for his CO, the plaguing cough that he couldn't ever seem to shake . . . might not ever get rid of, even after the war. He closed his eyes. The tunnels had been absolutely crucial, he reminded himself. He recalled Landry himself standing in his office back then, his wiry body vibrating with energy and excitement. "_We can do it, Colonel! It'll be risky in places, but I'm a coal miner's son and I know how to shore up mines and keep them stable. Once we have a secure tunnel system, just think of what we can do! It's doable, sir. Let me do what I know I can do_."

And he had. As a result, they had the safe, stable tunnel system Landry had promised them. The whole operation depended on it daily. But it hadn't come without cost.

He still felt guilty as hell.

Reluctantly Hogan headed back toward Barracks 2, still pondering over Landry's situation. Rounding the corner of the infirmary, though, he ran quite literally into Sergeant Schultz. Rubbing his shoulder where the big guard had inadvertently banged into him, he stifled the instinct to snap at him, knowing that he himself should have been paying more attention. "Sorry, Schultz," he muttered.

"Oh, ho ho ho! Colonel Hogan!" The voice of anticipatory glee surprised him as Schultz smirked at him, apparently not put out by the impact at all, even though it had knocked the German aside by a step.

Hogan's antennae for trouble automatically went up. Schultz had that ineffably smug look on his face that Hogan had long ago learned meant that the guard knew something about something, rather than the nothing about nothing that he usually claimed. It always merited finding out just what that something was. Sometimes, the direct approach was the best, especially with Schultz caught wrong footed by their collision.

"So Schultz, heard any good secrets lately?" Hogan asked genially, leaning in confidentially.

"Only the one about your surprise party," Schultz answered, voice lowered to match Hogan's.

That news hit Hogan as solidly as taking a blow directly on his solar plexus would. Momentarily left wordless, he crossed his arms and tilted his head back slightly as his eyebrows arched in surprise. That was enough to set Schultz off detailing the extravagant farewell party his men were planning for him, dwelling in loving detail on all the fine foods LeBeau and Newkirk had charged him with purchasing on the local black market: ". . . and they want me to find fresh asparagus! And eggs and butter and sugar for a cake—and caviar . . . Colonel Hogan, such _food_! And with the Cockroach cooking—it will all be _wun-der-bar_! And all for you—your men must think so very much of you!''

Each word heaped further hot coals of shame on him. "Yeah, Schultz," he finally managed to get out, just to stem the tide of the guard's enthusiasm. He put his hand on the guard's shoulder. "They're all good guys. I suppose you're off to town this afternoon?"

Schultz nodded fervently. Hogan clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Have a good trip. Good luck shopping." He hoped it came out as nonchalantly as he was aiming for. Schultz smiled happily back and lumbered off.

Returning to Barracks 2 right now was unthinkable. He couldn't face any of his team at the moment, not even long enough to walk through the main room to his quarters. Instead, Hogan started walking the perimeter of the camp counterclockwise, staring at the barbed wire to his right and woods outside beyond it as he hiked along about a dozen feet inwards from the warning wire, refusing to look to the inside of the camp to his left as he weighed his orders, responsibilities, and duties. Once he had completed the circuit of the camp, still irresolute, he started around again.

This time, at the third corner of the camp, Hogan paused and finally turned to look inward at it, backed by the warning wire and barbed wire that stretched away from him on his right and left, punctuated by guard towers. The rows of huts spread out in front of him; the men in varying national uniforms milled aimlessly among them, or engaged in work details or games of various kinds, taking advantage of the sunny if chilly weather.

He lifted his eyes to the sky, watched the clouds dancing slowly in the wind. A curious pattern: the upper-level cirrus clouds were moving from the northwest to the southeast, while the mid-level altocumulus clouds moved the other direction, from east to west. _Storm coming_, he thought.

Hogan shifted his gaze to the ground: he knew quite well no tunnel ran below his feet at this point, but from this vantage point he could see several buildings that had tunnels that ran between them. The invisible underground world and all it represented weighed as heavily on him as the visible one above.

He had a sense of settling, of pieces clicking into place. He nodded to himself.

"For the duration," he said softly.

ooOoo

_*See the episode "The General Swap"; also quoted in my earlier story "Swapping Generals," based on that episode. On Hogan's desk: I noted that Crittendon has a much more standard type of desk in his camp office in the episode "The Crittendon Plan."_


	3. Chapter 3

Having momentarily worn himself out with pacing, Hogan plunked himself down on the wood bunk and leaned back against the wall of the cell. He drew his legs up with his heels resting on the edge of the bunk and his elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his forehead with his right hand. Even in the cool of the cell, his cheeks burned hot in remembering the sequel to his initial decision to stay at Stalag 13, rather than leave as ordered.

ooOoo

Returning to the barracks, he found his core team sitting together at the table, affecting a rather unconvincing nonchalance and idleness. He couldn't resist lightly baiting them about the party—but then he couldn't keep that up in the face of their generosity. Even Newkirk abandoned his usual sarcastic edge to express genuine pride, respect, and thanks for the work they'd done together. Hogan could remember a time when he'd wondered if the cynical Englishman was even capable of feeling softer emotions, so that little speech had especially gotten to him.

He was glad he had already made his decision at that point. So he told them, staring down into his coffee cup with his back turned because it was too hard to look them in the eye at first: "I'm proud of you guys too. In fact, it suddenly dawned on me what this command meant." Turning, he finally raised his eyes to meet theirs. "I'm not gonna go. I'm going to tell Headquarters I've decided to stay, orders or not."

And then Kinch blew his grand gesture all to pieces with the news that his replacement was already on his way.

That piece of paper, in Kinch's familiar neat script, was still etched in his mind, as well as his initial reaction upon reading it: "RAF group captain,* trained commando, sabotage expert." So . . . a real intelligence professional who would know what he was doing, not a seat-of-the-pants pilot making it all up as he went along.

As he stared at it, he tried to tell himself that he felt relief. He would be handing over command to someone truly competent, someone who would both look after his boys and get the job done. He was careful to say all the right things to his team, to praise his replacement, tried to smile at the idea of this specialist taking over: "I must say my replacement sounds like a darn good man."

But all he could think was that he'd blown it big time the previous night when he'd told Kinch to acknowledge the order. He had given up the best command of his career without even thinking about it.

He felt like such an idiot, standing there with them, holding that paper describing the man coming to take his place. Carter blathered on about there not being anyone like him, and he simply couldn't stand it, told him to shut up, rude as could be.

Put the best face on the news, he told himself firmly. So he tried to move on by talking about moving on, asking how London intended for him to leave Stalag 13. But he also brought up the mission they already had planned. At least he would have one more mission together with his men.

And because they were indeed the best team ever, they responded to that overture: Carter the irrepressible with the news that the bombs were ready; Newkirk with the promise to see them put on the tracks to get the Berlin Express.

LeBeau, though, didn't say anything, just sat there with his fist over his mouth. Well, the Frenchman always wore his heart on his sleeve and was obviously taking Hogan's departure badly.

And Kinch didn't say much either, beyond a chilly comment that his replacement would know how Hogan was supposed to leave.

Hogan couldn't blame Kinch. The sergeant had to be feeling especially betrayed by Hogan so casually tossing aside his command of their unit, and rightly so, given the uniquely precarious nature of Kinch's position in the outfit under any other officer. Kinch was probably irreplaceable as their radio man—no one else was up on the codes or could consistently coax the cranky radio to work in the damp and dirty tunnel. But Kinch's influence in the operation extended far beyond that: he was Hogan's right hand man, the one whose cool head Hogan had relied on to reel him back in when his own ideas got too flighty.

Would the incoming British officer recognize Kinch's talents? Give him the respect that he'd earned and deserved? Or would the new CO automatically demote him based on simple prejudice? Hogan knew—and Kinch certainly knew—that was a distinct possibility, however good a commando and sabotage expert the new officer was.

Well, what a joke that had turned out to be.

Hogan hadn't gotten an expert at anything. He'd gotten _Crittendon_.

ooOoo

That thought brought back unpleasant memories of exactly how he'd found out the identity of his replacement. As he'd followed Schultz to the Kommandantur, he should have realized how much off his game he was from his discovery that events had progressed too far for him to back out of his regretted decision to leave. But he hadn't, and as a result he had also stumbled badly with Klink, whose glee on replacing him as senior officer in camp still stuck in Hogan's craw.

Klink's "news" wasn't news, of course, although Hogan hadn't expected his successor to arrive quite this soon. His already sour mood worsened as Klink gloated over using rank seniority to supplant him, taking delight in the chance to "chop you down," as the Kommandant so exultingly—and repeatedly—put it: "Chop! Chop! Chop!" accompanied by that ridiculous hand gesture. Hogan had downplayed his feelings by employing a world-weary sarcasm that he had used before to deflect Klink's jabs, even trying to take the wind out of Klink's sails by "guessing" the news that the incoming officer outranked him.

He had just really wanted out at that point: out of Klink's office, out of camp, out of Germany, out of the whole damn war. He'd even had his hand on the office door, ready to leave.

Klink, naturally, had taken full advantage of his authority to remind Hogan he had no permission to go anywhere at the moment. That, of course, was when he'd sprung his little trap, revealing that Crittendon would be the new senior officer in camp.

Hogan bitterly had to admit that Klink's smug revelation of the new senior officer's identity had caught him by surprise—and that he had shown it all too vividly. Klink's triumphant comment on his unguarded reaction to Crittendon's impending arrival still rankled: "And thank you, Hogan, for falling apart so beautifully. You know, that look on your face, it's even better than I'd hoped for."

Hogan stood up abruptly and started pacing his cell again. Five steps and reach the wall, turn. And again. And again. And again.

He had seldom lost an engagement with Klink as comprehensively as he had that one, he thought bitterly.

Klink had assigned that blithering British idiot to Barracks 2, as another layer to the revenge he was taking on Hogan. Further, he had kicked Hogan out of his quarters into the main room with the enlisted men, rather than requiring Crittendon to share quarters with his fellow officer.

—Not that Hogan wanted to spend any time one on one with Crittendon. Nor was he elitist enough to object on principle to sharing quarters with his men, although he had valued the privacy that his office had given him and believed they needed a break from their commanding officer as much as he needed some distance from them.

But he wasn't going to be their CO any more. Even if he stayed, against London's orders, Crittendon would outrank him; he'd be under Crittendon's command.

His stride halted just barely short of the blank gray cell wall, and he stared at it grimly for a long moment, then slapped it hard with his open hands. Palms stinging, he turned around again to pace the other direction.

He couldn't serve under Crittendon. He just couldn't.

Just take, for instance, Crittendon's introduction to his barracks. When Hogan returned to Barracks 2 after the confrontation in Klink's office, his agitation was immediately apparent to his men. He was unable even to stand still, pouring himself some coffee to calm himself down, then putting it down after one bitter swallow, pacing up and down between the stove and the door, trying to find words to tell them that disaster was coming. It was even worse, knowing that he had essentially invited it.

—Except that he couldn't do that, couldn't deliberately undermine his successor, no matter who it was. That was officer protocol: officers simply didn't undercut the authority of fellow officers in front of enlisted men—especially the authority of officers senior to themselves.

"Don't worry, everything's going to be all right," he tried assuring them. "Don't worry about it."

It must have been the worst acting job of his life, judging from LeBeau's immediate response: "You're trying to tell us some bad news, right, _Colonel_?"

Well, he thought, maybe . . . maybe they wouldn't see Crittendon taking charge as the fiasco that he saw it as. Maybe he was too blinded by his own issues with the man. They knew Crittendon . . . maybe he didn't irritate them the way he did Hogan himself. They had seemed okay with him that second time he was in camp, when Hogan had initially decided that assassinating Dr. Vanetti was necessary and Crittendon had tagged along after they had broken the intended assassin out of Stalag 16—at least Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter had liked some of Crittendon's strategies. He shouldn't try to influence their reactions. They were the ones who would be serving under Crittendon: the judgment was theirs to make.

So he tried to answer even handedly, "You might say it was bad news. Then again, you might not. It's up to you to decide what kind of news it is."

And just then, of course, Klink brought Crittendon in. He must not have wasted any time with an office interview—in fact, he must have gone out into the compound to meet the truck that brought Crittendon to camp and then personally escorted him straight to Barracks 2, too impatient to delay the pleasure of scoring off Hogan.

Hogan couldn't help feeling traitorously heartened by how Kinch and Newkirk's faces fell as Crittendon strode in and gave a crisp salute—presumably to Klink, who curiously didn't return it, but neither did anyone else—and by how LeBeau folded his arms and grumbled, "Bad news." Carter looked happy, but Hogan didn't hold that against him: Carter was always happy as a puppy to see just about anyone he knew.

And yet . . . if his men's opinion of Crittendon echoed his own, that was going to make life still worse for them, stuck with a CO they didn't trust or respect.

Crittendon noticed, in that dim way of his, the men's lack of enthusiasm over his arrival. Klink too used it as a final way to attack Hogan, right in front of everyone, using that infuriating "Chop! Chop! Chop!" and waving his hand right in front of Hogan's face. Hogan didn't deign even to look Klink's direction for that little performance—he wasn't going to give him that satisfaction again. So he kept his face stoic and nonreactive as he stared straight forward, his arms crossed loosely around himself until Klink finally left the barracks.

Crittendon fumbled through the change in command, first insulting the team by assuming that they were incompetent enough at security that they hadn't found and disposed of Klink's bugs, then rummaging uselessly for the orders that gave him command of the unit—though his pseudo-compliment to Hogan on "coming right up to the net" suggested that just maybe he was bright enough to recognize a challenge when he heard one. Hogan was holding onto his temper with both hands by that point, though he couldn't help hoping that perhaps the idiot had lost his papers, so that he himself might have some kind of excuse to retain command.

Except, of course, that would violate military protocol, given Crittendon's senior date of rank. Not to mention London's own orders via radio.

But no, Crittendon found the papers after all—and it was a wonder the Germans hadn't. The location in his hat certainly didn't look very secure. The mere thought of what would have happened after such a discovery sent a shiver down Hogan's spine.

Crittendon immediately resolved any doubts on how much of an idiot he might be or not be by nearly burning the barracks down. Hogan watched in deep disbelief as he first nearly set himself on fire, then as he disposed of the burning paper—not in the stove, which anyone with half a brain would have used, but in a _wicker_ hamper!

Hogan completely lost his temper at that point, physically hauling Crittendon out of the way so that Newkirk and LeBeau could put out the fire in the laundry hamper before it spread any further. Hogan's words weren't insubordinate, but his tone sure was, and Crittendon actually tried disciplining him by stiffly telling him to label the laundry hamper so that no one else would set it on fire—as if _anyone_ else would! That ridiculous directive made Hogan see red, and he actually lost self-control enough to shout his answer back at Crittendon—not exactly the behavior the Army expected of its officers.

Maybe Crittendon wasn't completely devoid of tactical sense, since he did stage a retreat at that point to the senior officer's quarters. Naturally, the idiot gave a formal salute before going in there—to an officer junior to himself. But of course Hogan had to return it. So he tossed a sloppy salute back, not even looking at Crittendon, closing his eyes and wincing as soon as he finished bitterly sketching the traditional gesture of respect.

Carter managed to find some humor in the situation, even if no one else did. Not trusting himself to speak in a civilized manner to anyone, Hogan left his men to sort out what they could salvage from the fire, while he headed outside to walk around the camp for the second time that day. The memory of his earlier hike burned hot inside him, fueling his anger at himself. So much for trying to stay here. What was done was done. Crittendon was here and officially in command. So he was going to have to work with that.

After another two circuits around the perimeter, he finally felt cooled down enough to approach Crittendon again. Much as he loathed the situation, he knew now that he was going to have to deal with Crittendon in order to get out of camp and back to London. Once there, he would persuade the brass to find someone else to take command of his unit.

_Anyone_ else.

ooOoo

_* Crittendon is referred to as Colonel in the television series, even though the parallel rank in Britain's R.A.F. is actually designated as Group Captain. Presumably the writers thought that an American audience wouldn't understand the unfamiliar rank. But since I'm trying to make the episode at least somewhat more plausible, I've changed "Colonel" to the historically and culturally correct "Group Captain" when referring to Crittendon . . . though that does lose the pleasing alliteration of his name on TV._

_There's a brief reference in this chapter to "The Assassin," Crittendon's second appearance on the show and apparently second time in camp._


	4. Chapter 4

_Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers, and my thanks to and gratitude for all readers from other countries._

ooOoo

Hogan got up and again paced the five steps he could manage in the cell, back and forth, wishing that he still had the freedom of movement that he'd had while hiking around inside the camp boundary just a few hours earlier. He had felt caged in while staring at the woods that surrounded the camp through the fence's barbed wire, but he'd had the sky overhead, the wind on his face, and room to move, and that beat his current small cell and its locked barred door. He remembered something his father had said many times: _"You never appreciate what you have until you lose it."_ The sentiment certainly seemed to fit in far too many ways at the moment. _Yeah, Dad_, he thought with silent bitterness, recalling what had led directly to his internment in this cell, _sometimes I wish you weren't so right so often_.

ooOoo

The sensation of knocking on what still felt like his own door and waiting for permission to enter was unpleasant, particularly given how self-conscious he was under the scrutiny of every man in the barracks, but Hogan hid his discomfort. He had a firm grip on his temper again after his two-hour cool down, and he was determined to manage this conversation in a manner befitting two high ranking officers. That included him showing proper respect for the senior officer—even if said officer _was_ a blithering idiot. _Stop it_, he scolded himself as he waited for Crittendon's reply, doing his best to quash his still smoldering resentment.

When he heard "Come!" Hogan entered the small room, holding his hat in his hand, all too aware of being a petitioner in what had been—just this morning—his own quarters. He was greeted with the surprising sight of Crittendon trying on his one spare clean shirt.

_What on earth is he doing wearing an American uniform shirt?_ Hogan wondered. Crittendon had said he was going to tidy up; however, Hogan hadn't expected him to help himself to the parts of Hogan's wardrobe that he hadn't yet had time to clear out of the office. The shirt didn't fit the British officer: Crittendon was built more heavily than Hogan himself (especially after nearly two years of camp rations), and the shirt that Hogan wore loosely with comfort now strained at every button on the barrel-chested British officer, who couldn't even fasten the cuff buttons at his wrists.

_Ignore it. Stick to your script_, Hogan reminded himself. While cooling down he had come up with a list of questions he needed to ask; how he would proceed after this conversation would depend on how Crittendon answered them.

"Got a minute, Group Captain Crittendon?" he asked, as blandly as he could make it.

A noncommittal "Ah?" was his answer, as Crittendon tried mightily to fasten the top button of Hogan's shirt around his thicker neck. The fabric wouldn't reach, and the Englishman abandoned the effort, leaving the collar gaping open.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," Hogan explained, absentmindedly hanging his hat on its usual peg on his locker door.

"Well, I'd be glad to answer anything I can," Crittendon answered, then added with a weird bend of the knees, waggle of his eyebrows, and lowering of his voice, "Of course, you, ah, realize I'm here under secret orders, hmm?"

Hogan suppressed the irritation that the smug satisfaction in Crittendon's voice provoked. _Stick to the script!_ he ordered himself. He had to find out how Crittendon had gotten this assignment and where all that folderol about sabotage and commando training came from. He didn't believe for a moment that Crittendon had any real background in it. So he concealed his annoyance at having to stand near his desk, while Crittendon sat at leisure on the stool that served as its chair, and set to work with his inquiry.

Unfortunately, every answer his fellow officer gave confirmed Hogan's gut feeling that Headquarters hadn't the faintest idea what they had done. Someone must have cursorily looked at Crittendon's record once he had volunteered, not realizing that he had substituted short refresher courses for genuine, serious training in commando, sabotage, and hand-to-hand combat work. They had been snowed by Crittendon's (unfortunately real) experience with the camp and by his enthusiasm for the assignment.

Crittendon had always struck Hogan as a guy who had never grown out of reading boys' adventure novels: the Englishman thought in clichés and saw the war as a great opportunity for some derring-do on his part as the hero of the story. Maybe that was hardly surprising in a guy who by his own admission had spent almost his whole career behind a desk. Reading between the lines of Crittendon's answers made Hogan wonder if Crittendon was either owed some kind of favor by some higher-up muckety-muck, or if this was a classic case of HQ's right hand not knowing what its left hand was doing. Or maybe both, given the magnitude of the snafu.

Either way, his unit was sunk with Crittendon in charge.

He looked downward, sighing deeply. He was going to have to get back to London after all, to warn them about what they had done. He couldn't do it from here: they would think he was just trying to retain command or sabotage the commanding officer—both of which were pretty much the truth. He could wind up on charges for trying either one. Once he was in London personally, though, _someone_ would have to listen to him.

He ran through possible contacts in his head. Had O'Malley signed off on the transfer of command? Surely he could get Generals Walters and Butler to talk with the British general if so, or maybe get General Gaynes . . . or for pete's sake General Barton—hardly a friend, but _he_ sure owed him a big enough favor at the moment—to intervene.

This train of thought took his attention off Crittendon at a crucial moment, and he suddenly found himself being forced back against his locker by a sharp knife blade that Crittendon had produced from that ridiculous swagger stick he carried. Hogan had always detested the practice of swagger sticks: in his opinion, any officer who needed a prop to buttress his authority had already lost the battle for his men's respect. Klink was a prime example, of course. So Crittendon's ongoing preoccupation with his swagger cane was simply one more black mark against him as far as Hogan was concerned.

So it was with no little annoyance that he found that he had underestimated the use of the blasted stick when Crittendon turned it against him, lunging forward abruptly and attacking him with a whoop, backing him up against the locker door with the knife at his vulnerable neck, unable to move without risking cutting his throat.

"Rather neat trick, eh, Hogan?"

Hogan gasped out, "Yes indeed, a very neat trick," furiously aware that Crittendon had quite deliberately put him in a physically submissive posture with that little stunt. When it was combined with having taken his uniform, Hogan began wondering if Crittendon wasn't quite as dim as he usually appeared: he certainly had a knack for marking his territory, at the very least.

"Does a neat job too," Crittendon added merrily. "This knife is razor sharp."

"Yeah, I can feel it's a, uh, razor sharp knife," Hogan muttered, suspecting that the "neat job" that Crittendon was boasting of at the moment was its ability to put Hogan in his place rather than its potential use against the Germans. He eased himself away from the bite of the blade against the tender skin of his neck and moved over toward his bunk, where he couldn't be so easily trapped.

"Dreamed this one up myself!" Crittendon prattled on, looking down at the knife fondly. "So far it seems to have fooled Jerry, doesn't it."

Hogan suppressed the rage the comment triggered in him. Crittendon hadn't been captured by the S.S. He hadn't spent interrogation time with the Gestapo. He hadn't even been interrogated at the Dulag Luft—well, this time anyway, though he must have been when he was initially shot down. But this time all Crittendon had had to face was Klink. He finally settled for answering with a warning, "Well, around here 'Jerry' isn't too hard to fool."

Maybe that further challenge explained Crittendon's next move: shredding Hogan's hat and shirt by stabbing them with the unprotected blade of his swagger cane. Accidental damage, the man claimed—but there was something about it that felt more like Crittendon deliberately taking Hogan down a notch. Further irritated, Hogan wondered if Newkirk would be able to mend the hat in any satisfactory manner—and then reminded himself that he wasn't going to be here anyway.

Crittendon apparently felt the same way: he wasted no further time in getting down to business. "Anyway, as I was saying, I've been giving some thought to your escape from here." He brought the knife blade down with a loud thwack across the desk.

Hogan had the distinct impression that Crittendon couldn't wait to get rid of him. Well, at this point the feeling was mutual. Hogan wanted out. But he couldn't endanger his men and the operation in the process. So he contradicted Crittendon's statement, "It can't be from here!" He saw Crittendon's eyes narrow as he turned to face Hogan again, and he realized he was being too loud and challenging. He lowered his voice. "We're blowing up the Berlin Express and the Kessling Refinery tomorrow night. Any escape from Stalag 13 would be too risky."

Fortunately, Crittendon was amenable. "I see what you mean. Supposing you were to be transferred to another camp." He drew the unshielded blade of the knife across the desk, leaving a noticeable scratch. "And while en route you make your escape with the aid of the underground?"

Hogan had to admit, "That's a good idea, but how do we arrange my transfer?"

Crittendon answered with surprising perceptiveness, "Well, if Klink thought an important prisoner like Colonel Hogan were attempting an escape, he'd have you out of here before you could try it."

Hogan was surprised that Crittendon had seen through Klink's insecurities so well. Nothing would alarm Klink more than the idea of Hogan, his longtime star prisoner, successfully escaping. The suggestion would make excellent bait for arranging the transfer. He glanced suspiciously at Crittendon, wondering for a moment if the dimwittedness was a front: Crittendon seemed to be sharp enough when it came to getting rid of Hogan and shoring up his own position as commander.

He dismissed the idea, his mind turning again to fooling Klink. All he had to do was convince the Kommandant that he didn't need to stick around now that Crittendon was in charge. Klink would transfer him in a heartbeat.

"He sure would," he agreed, adding in a mutter, "and I know just the pitch I'm gonna give him."

That was a mistake. He had been thinking about playing Klink, when he should have been thinking about playing Crittendon.

Crittendon immediately put him back in his place, lunging forward with his cane blade to spear the office door shut and trap Hogan inside. Hogan couldn't help sighing audibly and looking heavenwards seeking for patience as Crittendon tartly reminded him, "The _senior_ officer is the only one to have contact with the Kommandant. _I'll_ do the talking to Klink."

"Look, it really might be better if you let me handle him. I've been doing it for some time now," Hogan protested. The last thing he needed at this point was Crittendon screwing up the transfer.

But obviously Crittendon only saw the plea as further insubordination and an attack on his own capabilities as the new CO. "Don't worry, I'll handle Klink. And believe me, in no time at all you'll be free as a bird," he assured Hogan.

Crittendon pulled on his uniform jacket and cap—putting them on over Hogan's shirt and covering that up with the white aviator's scarf he affected—then swaggered out of the senior officer's quarters and through the barracks, with a jaunty wave at a still sullen Newkirk and LeBeau, before leaving the barracks. Kinch and Carter were nowhere in sight.

Hogan watched him go from the office doorway, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"What's his nibs up to?" Newkirk asked, cocking his head back toward the outer door.

"He's gone to Klink, to get him to transfer me to another stalag so that I can escape during the transfer," Hogan answered, with a slight shake of his head. "I'm going to listen in on the coffeepot, see how he does. You want to join me?" he asked, an unusual amount of diffidence in his voice. He wasn't sure where he stood with either of them at the moment, surprise farewell party plans notwithstanding. That had been before the consequences of his decision to leave had hit—consequences that they were going to have to live with.

Or, God help him and them, possibly die from.

Newkirk and LeBeau traded silent looks, both shrugged, and followed him into the office.

Given Crittendon's appropriation of his spare shirt, Hogan felt no compunction about using what were no longer his quarters. He hauled out the coffeepot with its hidden speaker and sat down on the stool to get it set it up. Newkirk came around to stand on his right, near the window, while LeBeau leaned on his elbows on the desk on his left. "Kinch down below?" Hogan asked as he worked, carefully keeping his tone even.

"_Oui_," LeBeau nodded. He didn't elaborate, though, or mention Carter either. Hogan let it go.

By the time he had the speaker up and working, they could hear Klink, apparently in a very good mood, actually humming in his office, a tune that Hogan recognized with annoyance as a section of Brahms's _Triumphlied_, which Klink had insisted on playing for him on record one evening several weeks back. Klink broke off when a knock was heard, then Hilda announced that Group Captain Crittendon was requesting to see him.

"Oh, show him in, show him in!" Klink said, satisfaction written large in his voice. A moment later, he added, "Ah, Group Captain Crittendon! Come in, come in! Please, sit down. Would you care for a cigar?" Hogan recognized the particular snick of the lock on the humidor. "Here, let me light that for you," Klink continued. "I hope you are settling in comfortably. I did tell Colonel Hogan to clean up the senior officer's quarters for you, since I know you are quite particular in that regard, and I hope he has done so to your satisfaction."

Hogan ground his teeth and glared at the speaker. LeBeau and Newkirk shifted uncomfortably next to him.

"Ah ha! Yes, quite so," Crittendon replied. "My quarters will do. I can't say that I have found Hogan to be particularly welcoming, though, Kommandant—he doesn't seem keen on the idea of being my executive officer."

Hogan rolled his eyes at the term.

"I say, this cigar is a jolly good one, sir!" Crittendon continued.

"Thank you, Group Captain! It's a pleasure to share a cigar with an officer who appreciates a superior taste."

_As if I don't_, Hogan thought, miffed. _Wait, why on earth do I care about what Klink thinks of my taste in cigars?_

"But I dare say Hogan will get used to his position as my XO . . . if he sticks around."

"'If he sticks around'?" Klink's voice was sharp with suspicion as he quoted the English officer's words back at him, lengthening his vowels. "What do you mean, Group Captain?"

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Kommandant, he started talking about escaping now that he was no longer responsible as the senior officer. He—"

"_Escaping?!_" Klink cut Crittendon off, his voice rising with an indignant quaver. "We'll see about _that_!" They heard Klink's chair squeak, then footsteps and the door opening. "Guard! Go find Colonel Hogan and lock him in the cooler, in cell 3." Hogan heard the guard's distant acknowledgement. Then Klink added, his tone venomous, "We'll teach Hogan a lesson about trying to escape!"

Hogan pulled the plug on the coffeepot. "Great. Just _great_." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should've known . . . no, scratch that, I _did_ _know_ Crittendon would blow this! And now I'm gonna be locked up—how the hell am I going to get out of the cooler, never mind getting out of camp?!" He slammed his fist down on the desk.

Newkirk pursed his lips tightly as he began putting the coffeepot back together, while LeBeau queried anxiously, "Isn't Cell 3 one of the ones we don't have a tunnel to, _mon Colonel_?"

"Yep," Hogan sighed. His mind raced—there wasn't much time for fancy planning. The guard—not Schultz, of course, since Schultz had gone off to town to buy farewell party supplies—was crossing the compound even now, on the way to haul him off to the cooler. But he was going to need some way out of that locked cell . . . which meant someone had to unlock it . . . which meant a key. . . .

He put his hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "You still have that set of cooler keys you duplicated as insurance, right, Newkirk?"

"Yes, sir," Newkirk nodded. "Got the whole ring down in the tunnel."

Hogan tightened his grip in appreciation. Newkirk's foresight last year was going to save the day today. "Okay. Here's what we'll do. When Crittendon gets back here, you guys tell him that he needs to come see me in the cooler. Get him to tell Klink that he needs to visit me, check on my morale or talk some sense into me or whatever. Just make sure he comes to see me and brings the key to that cell with him."

LeBeau's resolute "_Oui, d'accord_" and Newkirk's firm "'Course we will, sir" came virtually simultaneously.

Hogan looked at them regretfully and squeezed LeBeau's shoulder too, wishing he deserved the loyalty that moved them to speak with such assurance, but then his attention was drawn by the door from the compound banging open in the other room, and a rough voice demanding, "_Wo ist Oberst Hogan?_" The tone of glee underlying the harshness couldn't be missed in any language.

Corporal Hahn, of course. The guard who had it in for him the most.

"Time to go," he sighed, then clapped each of them on the shoulder.

ooOoo

_Author's notes: _

_1) The sources for the generals Hogan thinks of appealing to: _

_General Tillman Walters visits Stalag 13 in "How to Cook a German Goose by Radar." _

_Hogan contacts General Butler via radio in "Two Nazis for the Price of One." _

_Hogan meets an unnamed British general in "D-Day at Stalag 13," which is set after this, but I'm assuming Hogan already knew him. He is not named in that episode so I gave him the name of the actor who played him, J. Pat O'Malley, and I've made him the general overseeing Hogan's operation. (O'Malley also, coincidentally, played General Walters, mentioned above. But Walters is an American general, whereas the unnamed general in "D-Day at Stalag 13" is clearly British, so I've opted to treat them as different people.) _

_Ditto the unnamed general in "Easy Come, Easy Go," played by George Gaynes, is now General Gaynes._

_General Barton is, of course, from "The General Swap." _

_2) Corporal Hahn is an original character who appeared very briefly in my story "Swapping Generals."_

_3) Several background details about Crittendon in this chapter are drawn from "The Assassin," his second appearance in the series._


	5. Chapter 5

Tired of pacing his cell, Hogan slouched down on the wood bunk, feeling his leather jacket scrape against the chilly gray wall as he drew his left leg up, leaving his right foot tapping the floor. He felt twitchy, unable to sit still. He had been locked up in here a good three hours already: where the hell was Crittendon? He had no doubt that Newkirk and LeBeau would pass on the plan to him; the question was, would the English officer play ball? He should, though. If he was reading the man right, Crittendon was as eager to get rid of Hogan as Hogan was right now to get out of the cooler and be on his way.

He sat up straighter, pulling his right leg up onto the bunk too and linking both hands loosely around his knees, though still rocking his feet in slight sharp jerks. He knew from experience that time in a cell always passed slowly, and that it was far worse when waiting for some anticipated event. He needed to get his mind onto something else.

But all he could think of was his command here. He kept wondering if there was some way that he could get rid of Crittendon and stay in command himself. The idea of ignoring military protocol in this situation was attractive: he had certainly been sorely tempted to do that on the two other occasions Crittendon had been in camp.

In one sense it would be easy enough to do: Stalag 13 was far enough removed from London's command center that he had a large amount of autonomy. He was kind of a cowboy, operating out here on his own. Hogan knew himself well enough to admit privately that the independence he'd had in his operation here was a large part of what he had treasured about this command, despite its many strains. If he asked it of his men, they might well follow him rather than Crittendon—they would certainly believe that he was more likely to keep them alive than that idiot was.

—Except he couldn't do that. Mutiny was unthinkable. Pragmatically speaking, it had a way of coming back to bite the mutineers, which made it a bad choice even when the situation was absolutely life-and-death desperate, but the operation wasn't in that kind of shape at the moment. Plus (and far more importantly) mutiny went against the grain of everything Hogan had trained for and believed in for his entire military career. How could he expect loyalty and obedience from his men if he didn't obey the same code? Nor could he ask his men to risk their future freedom—maybe even their lives—over this conflict: after the war Crittendon would have them all up on charges that would certainly result in prison sentences—possibly even execution.

He had been down this road with them the first time Crittendon had come into camp, when Klink had transferred him from Stalag 18 as a ploy to replace Hogan as senior prisoner of war officer. He remembered Carter's argument: "The British didn't send this Group Captain Crittendon to take Colonel Hogan's place. And the French didn't send him. And the Americans didn't send him. So we can just ignore him. Right?"

"Wrong!" Hogan had answered. "He's senior prisoner of war officer now, and he's in charge of operations. Look, everything's going to turn out just . . . fine."

He knew he hadn't sounded very convincing back then, partly because he had been rattled by Klink's maneuver and partly because he had already had doubts about Crittendon as a commander from that first meeting in Klink's office. Hogan didn't care for the British officer's emphasis on military show, in the form of public calisthenics and parade. He and his men were busy enough trying to keep up with London's demands; he didn't have time to waste on frivolities like parade. Besides, if the Germans thought the prisoners were too demoralized for parade, so much the better. It was good camouflage for the clandestine activities that did matter.

But Crittendon hadn't known about the operation yet at that point, so on that occasion Hogan had given him the benefit of the doubt and had meant what he had said. They had to follow standard military protocol: the senior officer was the commanding officer. Period. Crittendon had a senior date of rank—by twelve years, no less—so that had meant he was in charge of operations. So Hogan had genuinely planned to cede his command to Crittendon on that first occasion he was in camp, at least until London sorted things out.

But then Crittendon had told them that he would divulge to the Germans any information he had about prisoners acting as spies. Sure, Crittendon had been technically correct. As prisoners of war, their sole legal obligation was to escape and rejoin their own national forces, as Crittendon had pointed out multiple times during that first visit.

Hogan could not agree with him, however, that in every other area they were to cooperate fully with the enemy powers. He was not about to sit in the middle of Hitler's Third Reich and let the war go as it would. The Nazis had to be defeated, and Hogan would use any means at hand to help achieve that end.

The whole operation he had built was against the rules for prisoners of war, who owed their safety to accepting their legal non-combatant status once captured. He had known from day one that the operation as he designed and ran it, particularly the spying and sabotage, went against the laws of war. If the Nazis ever caught him and his men, they would be well within their legal rights, according to international law, to execute him and his men for what they were doing.

But the need to defeat the Nazis overrode everything else, in Hogan's view. And London agreed: the Allied High Command had sanctioned his operation from the beginning, even though it was against the laws of war. Appalled at the prospect of betrayal, Hogan had ordered the whole team to keep their real mission a secret from Crittendon. He had never trusted the man since, despite Crittendon's about face during his second visit to camp.

Still, he'd had to tread very carefully that first time Crittendon had been in camp. He hadn't informed Crittendon of what their real mission was that time, despite the fact he owed that kind of information to a senior officer and his successor. Crittendon had even called him on it during that second visit, saying "You should have told me about it, though," even after Hogan had angrily pointed out that Crittendon had threatened to betray them. But ultimately Hogan had disregarded military procedure both times: he had seen Crittendon as a threat to the operation and preserving its safety remained his highest priority. So he had done his best to work around the English officer, staying as much within the letter of the law as he could.

Hogan knew that he was in fact guilty of assault on a senior officer. He had deliberately dropped that wrench on Crittendon's head, knocking him out when the little tunnel he was digging with Newkirk's and Carter's conscripted labor had intersected their larger one. Just before doing so, he had quite deliberately reminded Kinch of the Articles of War that bound all U.S. servicemen, with LeBeau as his witness, making it clear to them that he knew he was breaking them even as he simultaneously gave them his legal way out: "However, accidents will happen." He was in essence counting on a conspiracy of silence from his men to protect him from charges on that one, should Crittendon ever figure out what Hogan had done and officially call him on it.

That seemed unlikely. Besides, London's orders superseded Crittendon's: the mission was paramount and at that point Crittendon arguably represented a threat to it.

Hogan's blood still boiled when he remembered how Crittendon had informed him and Baroness Lili von Schlichter that he had to turn her in to the Germans—_knowing_ it would mean her torture and execution—with her standing there, so poised and dignified, right in front of him. How could any decent man even think of doing such a thing to _any_ woman? Let alone _that_ one?! Hogan had blocked Crittendon's exit from the office with his own body, but he had carefully not raised his fists or made any hostile gesture that could be construed as assault on a senior officer that time, and the only reprimand he had allowed himself was the brief comment that Crittendon would hate himself if he actually carried through. Nonetheless, Crittendon had seen his gesture as the challenge to his authority that it was, baldly asking if Hogan was threatening him. Fortunately, the Baroness had spoken eloquently for herself, defusing the tension between the two men and earning enough sympathy from Crittendon that he had finally relented, giving them twenty-four hours to get her out—less time than Hogan had needed, in fact. But still, for Hogan that initial intent to betray them—and her—remained unforgivable.

Hogan had also had to come up with a technically legal way for Newkirk and Carter to disobey Crittendon too, so that they wouldn't either escape or (as turned out to be the case) get caught with him. He smiled slightly as he recalled Newkirk's delight in the logic he had worked out: "So once he sets foot outside the wire during his planned escape, we'll be back under your command as long as we stay inside camp, sir? So we won't have to obey him? Sometimes you're a ruddy genius, sir!" Hogan didn't know if the idea would stand up under a military tribunal's examination, but he had at least tried to work within the rules. And he was determined to take the blame if any trouble came from it.

But this time was substantially different, because Crittendon _had_ been sent to replace him. The British SOE were the ones technically running the Stalag 13 underground operation: Hogan's handlers and direct contacts were British, although he had occasional contact with his superiors in the American forces. But he was in essence on loan to the British for this operation. If they wanted one of their own in charge . . . well, that made a certain kind of sense.

But _Crittendon?_

Hogan swore softly to himself. He still wasn't sure who had decided to pull him out of Stalag 13 or for what reason: the decision just didn't make sense, given his success rate here. The bond-selling tour mentioned in his orders last night was a stupid waste of his knowledge and experience. Not to mention that they needed a real "war hero" for that, not someone who had been, for all public purposes, sitting around in a prisoner of war camp for most of the past two years. Obviously, Headquarters couldn't expose his role here for publicity: that would mean the execution of the team remaining here at Stalag 13. They had already come too perilously close to that not too long ago, when the journalist Walter Hobson had published his little exposé, and Hochstetter had eventually gotten hold of a copy. The memory of that moment still sent shivers down Hogan's back that had nothing to do with the chilly temperature of his cell.

Becoming aware of how the cool wall was leaching his body heat out, even through his bomber jacket, he sat forward again, dropping both feet onto the floor and leaning his elbows on his knees.

So who had ordered him out of Stalag 13, and why? He didn't know, and at this point the only way to find out was to get to HQ in London. He couldn't stay here, hamstrung as he was. No longer senior officer, he had lost his former easy contact with Klink, and with it any kind of influence over the Kommandant. Serving under Crittendon was simply impossible. There was no way to reconcile his desire to leave, his need to stay, his orders from London, the necessity of obeying Crittendon as his superior officer, and the danger the man's incompetence posed to the unit.

But . . . maybe there would be a way back from London, if he could persuade them to give him another chance here. If London recalled Crittendon and let him return instead, he could try persuading Klink that he had been hiding somewhere after he "escaped" and was finally "giving up." He'd have to spend some time in the cooler, but if it was a cell with tunnel access, that was manageable. Maybe. . . .

The door to the building clanged down the hall. Hogan checked his watch: it was just after 1730 hours. He stood up. _At last!_

Except the footsteps didn't sound at all like Crittendon. They had a particularly hard stamp to them. In fact, they sounded like. . . .

The unwelcome face of Corporal Hahn stared at him. In his left hand he was carrying a tin pail, with what Hogan recognized as his dinner.

"_Weg da! Zurück!"_ Hahn ordered harshly, his hand on a pistol holster strapped to his belt.

There wasn't much point in causing trouble now, but Hahn's insulting tone and the deliberate rudeness in his phrasing of the order to back up grated on Hogan. So he slid his feet back—about two inches. He put his hands on his hips, elbows out, and tilted his head back fractionally, meeting the guard's eyes disdainfully from where he stood in the middle of the cell. Hahn's eyes narrowed at the defiance implicit in Hogan's gesture. For a long moment the two men glared at each other.

Hahn broke first. He pulled out his keys, unlocked the door and dumped the pail down on the floor just inside the cell, its contents audibly sloshing, then slammed the door back shut and wrenched the key around. Hogan tilted his head slightly the other direction and wrapped his arms around his torso, but continued to stare at the guard and didn't move. Hahn's eyes and nose twitched, as if smelling something bad, then he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway.

Relieved, Hogan listened to the retreating boot steps. The arrival of dinner probably explained the delay in Crittendon's arrival. No point in unlocking the door if Hahn was going to find it unlocked. He should have thought of that earlier. Thank heaven his men had. He was quite certain Crittendon hadn't.

Hogan heaved a deep breath and let it go as the outer door of the building clanged shut once more. Now that he was certain that Hahn wasn't coming back, he moved forward to pick up the tin pail. He sighed again, more dispiritedly, as he looked into it. The potato soup was watery and unappetizing, even more now that it was lukewarm instead of hot. The accompanying black bread had been tossed carelessly in and was slowly dissolving into a gelatinous mess in the thin, insipid liquid. Not appealing.

Disgruntled, Hogan wished that Schultz had been in camp as usual, rather than in town: he would have delivered the food as a chance to check on Hogan, and he would have at least kept the bread separate and maybe gotten something better for Hogan than these rough rations—something smuggled in by the men from Barracks 2.

The fact that Schultz had been off buying delicacies that Hogan was unlikely to be around to eat wasn't lost on him either: he was going to be on his way to England if the plan worked, or stuck in this cell if it didn't. So no farewell dinner for him. Even worse, he knew his men had to have spent a fair amount of money to bribe Schultz as well as supply the amount the guard would need to purchase the fancy food they had requested. Some of it had probably been counterfeit, but they had to be careful about where they seeded that money, so probably they had used their own stock of cash for most of it.

Hogan had been too agitated to eat any of the lunch LeBeau had fixed in the barracks hours earlier, after Crittendon had arrived, so he was hungry now. He sat down on the edge of his bunk and mechanically ate his way through the meager supper. It was awful, but he'd had worse since he had been captured . . . and less too, he reminded himself grimly. He had learned to eat what food there was when rations were short. But this was another thing he would never miss if he ever got out of camp.

Finished, he put the small pail back on the floor near the door. Listlessly, he sat back down on the bunk, his feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his thighs again, his hands dangling down in front of his knees. If Crittendon didn't get here soon—and if Klink didn't come check on him afterwards—this scheme wasn't going to work. And then what?

Finally he heard the far door open again. The footfalls marching down the hall were firm but lacked Hahn's jackboot stomp. Then he heard Crittendon's voice calling in its posh English accent, "Hogan! Colonel Hogan! Are you there?"

_And where else would I be_, he thought bitterly as he got to his feet and stepped over to the door. "Free as a bird, huh?" he muttered under his breath.

"Chirp, chirp," he greeted Crittendon, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his voice as he glared bitterly at the British officer. He grasped the bars of the door tightly: it was just too tempting to try to reach out and strangle Crittendon otherwise. "It's about time you got here."

Crittendon looked offended. "I got your message, but I had some trouble getting permission from Klink to see you. Finally, he gave me a three-minute visit as my reward."

"Reward for what?" Hogan asked with a snort, outrage still plain in his voice.

"For telling him about your escape plan."

"Yeah, that worked just s_well_," Hogan fumed. He switched topics: if all they had was three minutes, then time was already running short. "Did Newkirk give you the key?"

Crittendon eyed him coldly. "Right here in my pocket. You'd be mad as a March hare to make a break from here," he warned, glancing around at the hallway and cells.

_That's rich, coming from the Mad Hatter. Like I have any options at this point, thanks to you_, Hogan thought acrimoniously. _Besides, don't you want me to leave?_ Aloud he said, "Stop wasting time. Unlock the cell door, but leave it shut."

Crittendon didn't miss the command tone in Hogan's voice, and he stiffened further, resentfully. "Hogan, if you get shot and miss that bond selling tour, it'll be my neck."

Hogan's knuckles whitened as he gripped cell's bars more tightly. _Then why the hell does he keep delaying?! If the guard decides it's been three minutes, he'll have lost the chance to use the damn key!_ "It'll be a broken neck if you don't unlock that door," he threatened, infuriated beyond caring about regulations.

Crittendon pulled his head back slightly, staring Hogan up and down. "All right, don't get in such a stew." Finally he reached into his right coat pocket and pulled out a largish key. He fitted it into the keyhole and turned it, resulting in a reassuring and satisfying clunk as the tumblers in the lock moved. "There you are."

Hogan pushed at the door and felt it move fractionally, then he pulled it back tightly into place as Crittendon watched him disdainfully.

"If you try anything, just how far do you think you'll get?" Crittendon challenged.

The edge in the British officer's tone told Hogan that their animosity was now out in the open on both sides. That was fine with him. Hogan didn't even pretend to rein in his own temper. "I'm going to try something . . . and I hope it'll get me as far as the next prison camp," he snarled venomously in return. _ANYWHERE__ else has gotta be better than where YOU are._

Crittendon drew his head back slightly. His glare told Hogan that he had gotten the full impact of the implied insult. "Watch your tone, Hogan, or I'll be charging you with insubordination," he snapped. Then he turned on his heel and left, his footsteps tramping down the hallway between the cells almost as loudly as Hahn's.

Hogan released the bars of the door, stretching his fingers straight out and then jerking his hands back into the cell, careful not to move the unlocked door. He stepped back, breathing heavily from the adrenaline surging through his system from the confrontation. He had burned his bridges with Crittendon, which meant he was committed to leaving. Now he had to burn them with Klink, too.

ooOoo

_Author's notes: I owe special thanks to konarciq and her friend Kerstin for help with Corporal Hahn's German. The two of them very kindly and politely informed me about how a rude German guard would speak. It's rather ironic to be getting such a bad-mannered phrase from two such incredibly nice and helpful people!_

_Part (though not all) of the expanded dialogue in the final scene of this chapter comes from the script for the episode on the Hogan's Heroes Fan Club website, so I owe thanks to the owner(s) of that site and "Barbara from Austria" whom they credit for having typed in the script._

_The British SOE was the British Special Operations Executive, in charge of running espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance operations in occupied Europe and aiding local resistance efforts. Its American parallel was the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, the direct ancestor of the modern CIA. The OSS got off to a late start and worked closely with the SOE in its early days. In the television series, Hogan seems to report mostly to the British, though we occasionally see him communicating with Americans, so I've put him "on loan" to the British._

_I've done some research on military practices such as seniority, chain of command, insubordination, the laws of war, requirements for POWs, etc. I've done my best to make those issues accurate in this and other chapters, but they are complicated and I'm quite sure that I don't have all the facts and nuances completely right, especially given the additional complexities between officers of the same rank but different seniority in different national forces, which proved very hard to research. My general feeling is that the HH writers were working with some knowledge, but they may not have been completely accurate either, perhaps because of lack of knowledge or simply because of the shortcuts demanded by the half hour sitcom format of the show. The early episodes that Crittendon appears in suggested a number of questions along these lines, and I did what I could to find answers. So this chapter is a result of my research and guesswork, with a fair dash of artistic license. All mistakes are my own, but I do offer my apologies for any that I have made._

_Other episodes referenced in this chapter: "The Flight of the Valkyrie" and "The Assassin" (Crittendon's first and second appearances in camp, respectively); "No Names, Please" (Walter Hobson). _


	6. Chapter 6

Hogan lay on his bunk, wrapped in his thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. For the moment he had given up on pretending to sleep. He tilted his wrist to look at his watch. He could see it perfectly well, since they hadn't turned the light off for the night and the bare bulb still burned in its ceiling fixture.

0130. If they had followed the plan, Newkirk. Carter, and LeBeau should be on their way back from planting the bombs that would take out the train and refinery tomorrow. (No, make that _today_.) They had the locations that he had so painstakingly worked out, so they would be fine, even without him—_if_ Crittendon hadn't screwed up the plan.

Surely, if they had any sense—which they did—they wouldn't have told him about it. They could sneak out and back with Crittendon none the wiser.

No, that wouldn't work. He himself had mentioned the sabotage plan to Crittendon when telling him why he couldn't escape from Stalag 13. But surely even Crittendon could see how critical this plan was. He didn't even have to do anything but let them go execute the plan as it stood . . . if he would let them accomplish the mission by themselves, that was.

Thinking of the ways that Crittendon could ruin the plan if he decided to go along was probably enough to keep Hogan up the rest of the night.

And no doubt the idiot would still manage to screw it up in a way he hadn't foreseen, Hogan thought, his irritation rising further.

There were other reasons for his wakefulness too, besides worry and the low-watt bulb burning in the ceiling. This was his last night in Stalag 13. He had spent nearly two years of his life here. As a career officer, Hogan was used enough to moving from post to post that he had developed the habit of never thinking sentimentally over changing assignments. You did your job as well as possible, learned what you could, then moved on and left it for another officer to take over, just as you moved into another officer's previous assignment and took up the reins there. That was how the military functioned.

. . . But Stalag 13 was different. He hadn't taken over another man's job here, or ever thought about leaving it for someone else—well, not until last night. He had built the entire operation from scratch, poured a huge amount of himself into it in a way that he never had with any assigned post, and gotten far closer to the men under his command than he ever had before. Couldn't help it, really, living with them the way he did, with no separation between work and personal life. Newkirk's sly enjoyment of using his dubiously legal talents during their clandestine activities; LeBeau's animated face as he held out a spoon murmuring, "Try this, _mon colonel_"; Carter's daily cheerful confidence and the paternal glow on his face when he watched one of his bombs blow up successfully; Kinch's steadfast loyalty and sensible perceptiveness; Olsen's slick dodging abilities . . . a thousand memories flickered through his mind. He wished he could turn the clock back 24 hours, take back the way he had acceded to London's orders without a fight—or even a second thought, until it was much too late.

_Stop it_, he ordered himself. _Wishing you'd done otherwise doesn't help. Deal with reality, not with "if only."_ That was the only way to manage a war: he had learned that a long time ago.

He shifted to curl on his side to try to conserve warmth, pulling the blanket up higher. At the same moment he heard an answering scrape of boots on concrete out in the corridor. He gritted his teeth. Klink's response to their little confrontation earlier in the evening had been to ensure Hogan's inability to escape by putting a guard on him. The barred doorway and the ceiling light meant the guard could see Hogan at all times, keeping him under continual surveillance from the corridor. Any movement on his part got the guard's attention. Hogan loathed being watched this way. There was no way out of the cell from inside once Schultz had locked it again, of course, but Hogan had successfully made Klink believe there might be. So the guard was the price of his success.

Nonetheless, winding Klink up one last time had been fun. He grinned under the blanket. He could admit it to himself, that he got a kick out of doing that. And that he was good at it too. Not that Klink was incredibly hard to fool.

But he could hardly keep from chuckling aloud as he recalled opening the cell door and sauntering down the corridor behind them, arms clasped behind his back, while Klink called him a "has-been." Hah! It had taken Klink nearly a minute to realize that Hogan wasn't supposed to be in the hallway talking with him—and was supposed to be locked in his cell. It had been even funnier standing in the corridor looking at Klink and Schultz inside the cell inspecting the lock, and then quoting Klink's words back at him: "If you fellas don't mind, I'd like to get back into my 'bust-proof cell' and start planning my escape." The do-si-do of sliding around them coming out as he went back in had been pretty amusing too, as had his last threat: "Good night. See you in the morning. . . . Maybe." He had gotten Klink to check his stride, turn around, and shake both fists at him with that one.

Of course, he had also been saddled with a guard about five minutes later. Not Schultz, unfortunately, but at least Hahn was off duty by then. Well, it was a good sign that Klink was taking Hogan's threat to escape seriously. The question was, would it push him to transfer him instead of keeping him locked up here?

Surely it would, Hogan thought, answering his own question. Klink wasn't going to waste the manpower of a guard watching Hogan around the clock for days on end. No, the easier, safer thing to do would be to transfer him.

And Klink always did the safer thing. Hogan could count on that.

Nevertheless, some elements to the interview niggled at him. Hogan had started the discussion fairly neutrally, thanking Klink for coming to see him. But it had quickly turned confrontational, as Klink had immediately emphasized his preference for Crittendon as "a fine officer and an honorable man" and stressed that he was only coming to see Hogan "as a personal favor" to Crittendon, staring at Hogan belligerently the whole time.

Hogan had asked ironically, "Since when are you doing favors for the enemy?" They both knew perfectly well that Klink was doing no such thing: he was using Crittendon as a weapon against Hogan, retaliating for all the headaches that Hogan had caused over the years.

True to form, Klink had retreated to his one unassailable position: "He kept you from committing suicide. No one will ever escape from Stalag 13 as long as I'm its Kommandant!"

So Hogan had skewered Klink's self-assurance by playing up his intention to escape as a deliberate ploy to unseat Klink as Kommandant, making his language as slangy and insulting as possible. "Yeah, I'm busting out of your prison camp, Colonel Klink. Just wanted to give you advance notice so you can pack." He had added further insult in his deliberate dismissal of Klink by returning to his bunk and lying down in a calculatedly careless posture.

His rudeness had worked. Klink had indignantly asserted, "You don't 'bust' out of any place until you 'bust' out of this 'bust-proof' cell, and that's a good trick in itself."

So Hogan had played it up more, staring up at ceiling as he goaded the Kommandant further. "That's why I'm glad I'm locked up in here. The more sensational my escape the sooner we'll get you to a cooler climate." Needling Klink with the threat of a transfer to the Russian front had worked just as well this time as it always did to frighten the Kommandant, maneuvering him in the direction Hogan wanted him to go in. He knew so well which of Klink's buttons to push. . . .

Klink, curiously, had seemed to tire of the game at that point, asking quite directly, "Hogan, why did you want to see me?"

Despite the implicit appeal, Hogan hadn't let it go. He had played the role of "owing" Klink a warning about his upcoming escape, but spoke sarcastically enough that Klink hadn't bought that, just as Hogan had intended.

He had succeeded in provoking Klink, who had countered with unusual perceptiveness, "Oh no, Hogan, you just wanted to annoy me, get me upset. It won't work!"

Well, that was true; the trick was in guiding Klink's annoyance in just the right direction. Klink saw himself as having the whip hand, with Hogan locked in the cell. And that was why opening the door and walking out of the cell so casually had worked so well. His mouth quirked again at the memory of Klink's outrage.

He had pitched the ball, nice and slow and aimed right in the strike zone. Surely even Klink could hit that one.

ooOoo

Morning came at last. At least, his watch said 0600, a new guard exchanged places with the previous one and brought Hogan breakfast, so those had to be taken as signs of morning despite the eternal sameness of dim light in the cooler cell and corridor. Hogan waited to hear news about his transfer.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By 1100 hours, he was seriously worried.

By 1400, he had been pacing the cell without stopping for well over two hours, despite the guard's surveillance. Klink had had more than enough time to call another stalag, arrange a truck and guards. What was the hold up?

Finally, at 1440, he heard the outside door open and heavy, slow footsteps coming down the hall. Schultz this time, then, it had to be—and yes, the big sergeant of the guard peered into Hogan's cell, his face troubled.

"Colonel Hogan, Kommandant Klink has ordered your transfer to Stalag 15," he announced sorrowfully.

So, it was done. Hogan put his hands on his hips, squaring his elbows, trying to feel relieved about this information as Schultz fumbled through his keys, trying to find the right one, after he had dismissed the other guard.

Okay, Klink had indeed hit the ball he had pitched; now all Hogan and his men had to do was catch it. He hadn't had a chance to speak to them at all, or make any kind of plan to intercept his transfer, so he was gambling on them being able to arrange that themselves. That shouldn't be a problem: they had done this sort of thing plenty of times before.

Except this time they had to worry about Crittendon. . . .

Well, maybe the Englishman would stay in camp. He had commanded from behind a desk for years, after all.

Except that was wishful thinking: Crittendon relished adventure, right? So he would probably come along for the rescue—especially since it gave him a chance to show that he was the one in command of the unit now. Hogan sighed as Schultz finally turned the key in the lock.

The door clanked open, and with the old-fashioned courtliness that Schultz so often used when it was his job to make Hogan go somewhere or other, the sergeant backed away and gestured for Hogan to come out. But once Hogan was in the hallway, Schultz stepped in front of him, blocking his way out.

"Colonel Hogan, what happened?" Schultz inquired in a low tone of voice, his eyes fixed on Hogan's face. "Why are you leaving Stalag 13? Why not just get rid of the group captain, like you did the last time?"

Last time. . . . Schultz meant Crittendon's first visit at Stalag 13, when Hogan had let him be the fall guy in the effort to get Baroness von Schlichter safely out. Interesting that Schultz saw Hogan as engineering Crittendon's capture then. It was partly true: Hogan hadn't cared if Crittendon had escaped or got caught, although with a plane taking off right over his head and directing the guards' attention in that direction, Crittendon hadn't had much of chance to get away. Hogan certainly hadn't encouraged Klink to keep the English group captain in camp afterwards. Klink had acceded to Hogan's suggestion that the two of them "made quite a team," ordering Helga to transfer the group captain back to Stalag 18 and accepting, albeit uncomfortably, Hogan's verdict on Crittendon that they "had to lose him: he was bad luck."

So it wasn't surprising that Schultz was asking. Schultz had long had some inkling about Hogan's "monkey business." He overlooked it mostly for personal preservation though also, Hogan believed, because of a deep-seated dislike of war in general and Nazism in particular that fought with an equally deep love of the Fatherland. The change in command for the prisoners had to have him almost as rattled as it did Hogan and his men.

Hogan couldn't, of course, directly answer Schultz's inquiry. So he shrugged. "Group Captain Crittendon is in charge now, Schultz. I really can't stay here under him." That was all true—and as much of the truth as he could reveal to the kindly guard.

Schultz held his gaze. "And all those boys that look up to you? You feel at ease about leaving them under the group captain's command?" he asked sternly.

_No_. Hogan dropped his eyes. He was accustomed to lying without effort, but on this issue he just couldn't, not given Schultz's honest concern for his men and his own shame over how he had abandoned his command without thinking it through. "I have to leave now, Schultz. That's all I can say," he finally answered quietly after a short moment of silence.

Schultz huffed, and as he glanced back up at the German sergeant's frown, Hogan had the distinct impression that he had deeply disappointed the sergeant. "Then the Kommandant awaits you in the compound," Schultz said stiffly, moving out of Hogan's path and gesturing formally for the American officer to precede him.


	7. Chapter 7

Hogan emerged into the small fenced compound that surrounded the cooler, blinking as the bright afternoon sunlight blinded eyes accustomed to the eternal dimness of the cooler's interior. He pulled his hat down over his forehead so that the visor would shield his eyes until they adjusted to the bright light.

As Schultz gestured for the guard to open the gate, Hogan scanned the compound for his core team among the milling crowd of men in the center of the compound. He picked out Crittendon easily, distinctive in his blue R.A.F. officer's uniform—not exactly who he was looking for, but likely enough the others would be close to him. And yes, he spotted LeBeau's maroon beret next, then Newkirk, Kinch, and Addison all standing nearby. No sign of Carter, rather surprisingly. He caught sight of Sergeant Wilson too, standing on the fringes of the group.

Wilson—oh, damn!

Hogan reached into his jacket, finding the pocket with the list of medical supplies he had promised Wilson—and himself—that he would get Klink to give them. He had been so caught up in the drama of his own departure that he hadn't thought to bring up the medical supplies with Klink when he had seen him—not that the Kommandant would have been receptive at any point yesterday. Nonetheless, breaking that promise (albeit unintentionally) weighed on him, especially given Wilson's concern and gratitude yesterday morning.

Hogan had a distinct feeling of leaving a lot of unfinished business behind him at Stalag 13. Hahn was another piece of it: the guard had a special dislike for American prisoners. Schultz had told Hogan that Hahn's sister had been killed in a bombing raid, and Hogan as an officer and a pilot had become the special focus for his bitterness over the last month. Hogan had some sympathies for the origins of Hahn's aversion, for civilian casualties in bombing raids had always troubled him—although the Nazis were responsible for inflicting them on the conquered countries of Europe first, not to mention England, where Hogan had personally witnessed the Blitz and its impact on civilian Londoners. But it was his job to look after his men, and Hahn's animosity (whatever its origins) had become increasingly threatening. Hogan had intended to pull some kind of strings to get him transferred elsewhere, but now he would have no chance to do that.

But maybe he could still do something about the medical supplies. Crittendon might be able to manage wheedling them out of Klink if he had the list, given that Klink seemed to think so highly of him. Surely he would care enough about the welfare of the men under his command here at Stalag 13 to try to provide for their medical needs.

Hogan pulled the paper out, folding it between his fingers twice as he did so to make it unobtrusive. "Schultz," he hissed as the sergeant turned toward him, having just opened the gate. Hogan slipped the paper into Schultz's hand. "Give that to Crittendon for me." Schultz's bushy eyebrows raised and his mouth formed an oval to protest, but Hogan overrode him. "It's a list of medical supplies I was supposed to ask the Kommandant for. I—" He hesitated and then added, his voice dropping, "There just wasn't a good time, yesterday."

Schultz's austere look softened. He slid the paper into his coat pocket. "I will see to it," he promised, nodding.

"Thanks, Schultz," Hogan said softly. "You're a good man." He meant that sincerely. Schultz had always been genuinely concerned for the prisoners' health, and Hogan had taken shameless advantage of the sergeant's kind heart many times.

A truck was parked near the Kommandantur. As they walked towards it, Kommandant Klink emerged from the building's doorway. Hogan's stomach lurched abruptly as he saw two black uniformed men follow him out onto the porch and then pause to exchange some comments: an S.S. officer—a lieutenant—and a guard. Two other armed S.S. guards came around from the front of the truck, flanking the back from each side.

Hogan's stride slowed. They had to be here to oversee his transfer. He had no good memories of being captured by the S.S. when he was shot down, and no good feeling about being given back into their custody now.

Why S.S. rather than Luftwaffe? Hogan had been counting on Schultz to take him to Stalag 15: that would have made his "escape" much easier. Did Klink consider him such an escape risk that he had called in the S.S.? Apparently he had done too good a job of frightening the Kommandant about that possibility last night.

Glancing over at Kinch, Newkirk, and LeBeau, Hogan wondered what the plan to spring him was, and how much difference the change in guards was going to make. He trusted his men to act without his direction when necessary, but he still hated not being in the know on the plan. The feeling was even worse since he didn't trust Crittendon an inch either, particularly not with the idiot standing there with his hands clasped in front of him, looking so self-satisfied—presumably over Hogan's impending departure and with it any challenge among the ranks to his own authority.

LeBeau edged over so that he was standing by the back of the truck when Hogan and Schultz arrived. "I packed up your belongings and put them in the truck for you, _Colonel_," he said, looking up earnestly. He added with a grimace, "The _Boche_ searched them, but I don't think they broke anything."

Hogan dredged up a smile. "Thanks, LeBeau. I appreciate it."

Klink and the S.S. lieutenant approached. Klink looked his erstwhile senior POW up and down. "So, Hogan, I see you didn't escape last night after all," he started smugly. "My guards' observations of you seem to have prevented whatever pitiful scheme you were cooking up. They saw you walking the camp perimeter yesterday, looking for escape avenues."

Hogan pulled his head back slightly in surprise: he hadn't expected that interpretation of his activities the day before.

"But you won't be escaping from Stalag 13, Hogan," Klink continued, in full-blown speech mode. "My record will stay intact. And I am quite sure that these gentlemen"—he swept his arm around to indicate the S.S. guards—"and in particular Lieutenant Sauer will see to it that you reach Stalag 15 safely."

Sauer's eyes rested on him coldly. Hogan glanced at him, then with deliberate dismissiveness turned back to Klink, swallowing the annoyance that Klink's smugness automatically provoked. He needed the Kommandant's good will one last time. "May I have a minute with my men, sir?" He gestured toward the group of prisoners standing nearby.

Klink huffed and shook his head. "That does not seem necessary," he refused austerely. "And they are no longer your men."

Hogan looked down at the ground, clenching his fists as his intentions were thwarted yet again. Klink was apparently intent on reinforcing Hogan's demotion as much as possible. This wasn't the way he had ever imagined leaving Stalag 13.

Klink continued, "Say _au revoir_, Hogan, and get into the truck. The men can write you at Stalag 15."

_So much for staying on Klink's good side_, Hogan fumed. He held up his left hand briefly, cutting Klink off. "I'll say my own goodbyes, if you don't mind." He didn't bother to disguise the irritation in his voice; there was no longer any point to playing nice. But he had to know before leaving how the operation last night had gone. So he asked, choosing his words carefully, "Newkirk, did you and Carter finish that job I assigned you?"

Newkirk, standing between Kinch and Crittendon, caught his meaning immediately. "Everything's all right, sir. Good luck, Colonel."

To Hogan's surprise, Crittendon strode forward at that point. LeBeau sidled away from Hogan, past the guard and over towards Kinch and Newkirk. "Is it all right if I give Hogan a gift, Colonel?" the English office inquired.

Klink looked dubious. "What kind of a gift, Group Captain Crittendon?

"Oh, just my swagger cane," Crittendon answered breezily. "I'd like him to have it for old times' sake."

Hogan distinctly remembered the swagger cane's hidden weapon—he still had a sore spot on his neck from it. Having it could be handy.

Of course if Sauer discovered the knife, it might also get him killed.

Or was it a part of whatever plan the Stalag 13 team had cooked up to get him away from S.S. custody? Better some kind of weapon than none, Hogan decided.

Klink too was apparently convinced. "All right, Hogan, take the stick and get into the truck," he ordered.

So Hogan accepted the cane as Crittendon handed it to him. He half expected Crittendon to give him some kind of hint as to what was going on, but he just smiled that imbecilic smile, clapped his hands over Hogan's, and stepped back into the group with LeBeau, Kinch, and Newkirk, as the first of the S.S. guards got into the truck.

Just as Hogan set foot on the tailgate's foot rest to climb into the back of the truck, Klink—apparently unsatisfied with the pace—ordered, "Hurry up, hurry up, men, I don't want them to miss the train!"

Hogan's brain froze. "Train?!" He knew all the local train schedules like the back of his hand. There was only one passenger train scheduled on any line in the next few hours.

Heedless of the alarm he had raised, Klink casually confirmed his worst fear as Hogan turned back around to face him. "Oh, you're going in style today, Hogan. The Berlin Express!"

Dazed, Hogan repeated again softly, "The Berlin Express?!" He glanced over at his men, trying to cover the fear welling up inside him.

He didn't see on their faces the spike of panic he had felt, which was reassuring. He determinedly squashed his worry. They must have discovered the route the truck was going, so it wasn't news to them. So they would have a plan to get to him before he got on the train. He wasn't going to be getting on that train . . . unless something went wrong.

Nonetheless, one glance at Crittendon's self-satisfied smile was enough to raise the hackles on Hogan's neck.

Crittendon, acting as spokesman for the prisoners, said, "I hate goodbyes, so we'll just say till we meet again."

Hogan nodded. That was a signal that they had a plan in mind—wasn't it? He was quite sure Crittendon wouldn't coldly abandon him—the man did have those adventure-novel values, like loyalty to comrades, after all. Nonetheless, the idea that he was entrusting his life to whatever plan Crittendon had cooked up unnerved him considerably. With that train as his destination, the stakes riding on the plan's success had been raised considerably.

Impatient with the delay, Lieutenant Sauer prodded Hogan in the back with his gun. "Into the truck," he ordered—in English, to Hogan's surprise.

Hogan mounted the footrest and swung himself into the truck, followed by Sauer who pushed him deeper in and pointed to the bench on the right hand side before taking a seat by the tailgate on the left once Schultz had closed it. Hogan sat, his hands on his knees holding the swagger stick, well aware of how both of the S.S. soldiers were covering him with their guns. He could still see his men outside the truck. "See you soon," he called, doing his best to sound casual but hearing an unintended but alarming rise in his voice on the last word.

He lurched on his seat as the truck shifted into gear. His hands balled into fists, gripping the swagger cane tightly; he stared at Kinch, LeBeau, and Newkirk as it took him away from them, their figures retreating into the distance as the truck passed the gate and left Stalag 13. They had turned toward Barracks 2 and were striding toward it with purpose, followed by Crittendon.

They would rescue him. Somehow. He could count on that.

ooOoo

_Author's note: this last scene is the one I've rewritten most from the original episode. Hogan's overt fear at the end always seemed seriously out of character to me: we see him keep a cool head in far more dangerous circumstances. So his utter panic when he hears about the Berlin Express seems way over the top to me. His words and tone give away too much (as does his previous question to Newkirk)—and not just in front of Klink but also in front of the more competent (and presumably dangerous) S.S. guards. Plus, he should be pretty sure that the guys will enable his escape before he gets on the train. So I substantially toned down his visible alarm. _

_There's also just no way that an S.S. officer would have let Hogan ride right at the edge by the tailgate where he could easily jump out of the truck. It makes television sense to put him there in the episode because they need him where the camera can see him, but given its lack of realism I've chosen to change the seating arrangements of the original episode. So my version isn't as funny as the episode (well, really none of my version is), but that's why it's toned down so much._


	8. Chapter 8

The truck lurched along the road, even at its relatively slow pace bumping hard over the many rough spots caused by war and weather damage. Hogan did his best to relax enough that he could sway with it to keep the jolts to a minimum. Nonetheless, he kept a sharp eye out on the road that spun away behind them, even though whatever attack his men had planned would have to initially come from the front to stop the truck. In his mind, he ran through which likely spots for an ambush they might choose.

Despite leaving camp after the truck and going by foot, his men would be able to catch it: like many old roadbeds created long before modern earth-moving equipment, this road avoided going over hills and twisted around following the low places of the wooded hills that surrounded the camp. Additionally, the route to town and the train station required one major detour to get to a bridge across a stream that a vehicle could cross, since Hogan and his team had blown up the nearer bridge months back, and it had not been rebuilt, though there were places to ford it on foot. So it was possible to cut across country by foot faster than going by car, and Hogan had exploited this natural advantage many times.

The guard spoke to Sauer, something Hogan didn't quite catch in the roar of the truck changing gears. But Sauer heard it and answered in German, "_Ja_, a waste of time and petrol. If I had my way, we would simply shoot him and be done with it, as we did with the Stalag Luft III officers last month. It's not worth wasting resources on him that the Reich needs. But we have our orders." He paused and eyed Hogan dispassionately. "Perhaps we will be lucky and he will try to escape." He lifted his Luger a little higher.

Hogan kept a bland expression on his face, as though he didn't understand what was being said, though inwardly he seethed. London had recently informed him about the murders of the British and Allied officers who had been involved in the mass escape from Stalag III in March. Sauer's comment clearly implied that these goons had been involved.

Nearly thirty minutes had passed since leaving camp, and Hogan was getting more and more antsy, though he did his best to control any outward sign of it. Any successfully attempt to waylay the truck had to come soon. He definitely did not like being in the position of needing rescue: he much preferred to do the rescuing—not that he'd had any choice this time.

Abruptly he heard a loud crack and crash from in front of them, not completely muffled by the roar of the truck's engine, and he braced himself for a stop, his muscles tensed and ready to move when his men's signal came. But the expected halt of the truck didn't happen: the vehicle barreled onwards without even slowing.

Looking back along the road, he saw a felled tree . . . but it had fallen the wrong direction, _away_ from the road rather than _across_ it. Newkirk, Carter, and even Kinch stood by the road, easily recognizable in the civilian clothes they wore when performing daylight missions, their shoulders slumped and arms sagging even as LeBeau charged up from behind them. Another man, wearing a brown jacket and dark cap and holding an axe, stood with his back to the receding truck, staring at the tree as if in surprise.

_Crittendon, you IDIOT!_ Hogan roared internally, though the only outward show he dared allow himself was a crushing grip on the swagger stick.

Yet again the Englishman had snafued a mission—and this time Hogan might pay for the mistake with his life.

And yet, as the road curved and took the truck out of sight, he saw his team charge across it, apparently heading back into the woods and leaving Crittendon behind. His mind raced over the maps of the local terrain stored in his head. Yes . . . there was another short cut, but Hogan doubted they could get ahead of the truck again.

He had better start thinking up contingency plans for himself. He couldn't afford to let Sauer and his goons (whom he had mentally christened Fritz, Blitz, and Nits) put him on that train.

He leaned back against the wood truck wall, trying to appear nonchalant but wondering if Sauer had noticed the unsuccessful rescue attempt. He must have heard the tree fall and observed the tree and the men grouped around it as the truck trundled past. Hogan had noticed Carter had had his gun out, though Kinch and Newkirk had turned to hide theirs; the weapons would definitely spark suspicion if Sauer had seen them.

Abruptly Sauer stood up, balancing himself with his left hand against the side of the truck. He gestured with his pistol to Hogan, a sharp leftwards movement. "Move over," he ordered, in English again. Hogan was surprised he knew the language and wondered if his language skill was why this lieutenant had been put in charge of his transfer.

Hogan obediently shifted to his own right, deeper into the truck as Sauer's gesture had indicated. The lieutenant took his former seat, his pistol still trained on Hogan, now at only a couple of feet's remove, his eyes implacable.

That made it pretty clear that Sauer was, at the very least, both cautious and suspicious. It didn't make Hogan's own situation any easier. If he absolutely had to, he'd make a break for it once the truck reached the station and before they handcuffed him for the train trip: they would certainly try to shoot him, but his chances of evading bullets, though slim, were still better than if he got on a train that was going to blow up and take out a refinery with it.

He was still trying to come up with other escape scenarios when there was a loud bang and the truck lurched violently to the left. Hogan dropped the swagger stick, grabbing the bench he was sitting on to keep from being thrown to the floor as the truck shimmied across the road first left, then right, an increasing loud grinding noise roaring from the left as it slowly rattled to a halt.

"Don't move," Sauer warned him, standing up. He warned the guard, the one Hogan had mentally christened Blitz, to keep his gun on the prisoner, then he pushed down the tailgate and jumped to the ground. Hogan sat tight, listening to the consultation going on outside the truck, highly aware of the guard covering him with his gun and hoping that he didn't have an itchy trigger finger that matched his lieutenant's expressed preference for shooting prisoners of war rather than transferring them. The driver, whom Hogan had decided to call Fritz, was showing Sauer that the front tire had blown. After a few moments' silence, during which Hogan assumed they were examining the tire, Sauer curtly ordered Fritz and Nits, which seemed an appropriate nickname for the third guard riding shotgun up front, to change the tire.

The three of them came to the back of the truck, and Blitz began removing his outer jacket, preparatory to changing the tire. Apparently he was fastidious and preferred to get only his shirt dirty, which he could cover up with the jacket.

"Out of the truck," Sauer ordered Hogan, again gesturing with his pistol. Hogan shrugged carelessly and leaned down to pick up the swagger cane before rising and coming to jump off the back end. "Over here," Sauer pointed to a spot beside the truck, continuing to cover Hogan with his Luger as the three guards began to unload the jack and the spare tire.

Hogan watched the process of the repair, deliberately adopting a nonthreatening posture of nonchalance: he slouched, leaning against the back of the truck once it was jacked up, resting his left hand on his hip and carelessly dangling the swagger stick from his right hand, ignoring Sauer's constant menacing gaze and aimed pistol as he silently mused over the cause of the flat.

Not a lucky accident, surely. LeBeau was an excellent shot when using a rifle with a scope; most likely he had taken out the tire from somewhere along the ridge. That would give the rest of the team a chance to catch up. Surely they would be along soon. But the longer the tire change took, the better.

"Takes a long time to change those tires, doesn't it?" he remarked conversationally to Sauer. Getting no response, he added, "Nothing to it on an American truck," just to needle the lieutenant, curious to see how he would react.

Fritz and Nits wheeled the damaged tire past them just at that moment, a hole in it big enough Hogan could put his fist through. The inner tire must have blown out from the pressure of the truck's weight once struck by the bullet. That was reassuring: they wouldn't be looking for a bullet hole. He heard Fritz and Nits toss the tire onto the bed of the truck with a loud clatter, as Blitz came behind them with the tire iron and jack.

Not surprisingly, Sauer bridled at the implicit disparagement of German equipment. Glaring, he snapped, "Shut up!" He swung the Luger very slightly from his wrist, gesturing towards his left. Hogan raised his eyebrows at the rude address to an officer of superior rank. "Get back in the van," Sauer added menacingly. "We are almost ready to go."

"'Bout time," Hogan answered with a slight shrug. He turned and walked behind the truck, hearing Sauer snap, "Back inside, everyone!"

Blitz had jumped back in the truck to put his jacket on; Fritz and Nits were on the other side of the truck with Sauer, who was apparently depending on Blitz to keep his eye on Hogan. But Blitz was struggling with his buttons. Hogan abruptly realized that he was unwatched for a moment. Time to gum up the works still further—a perfect opportunity to use the hidden knife in the swagger cane. He couldn't help wondering if this was what Crittendon had intended.

Swiftly, he ducked to the passenger side of truck, pulled the blade out of the swagger stick, and drove it into the back right tire. It slid in and out of the rubber silently, and he inwardly blessed the sharpness of the blade. Immediately, he shoved the blade back into its disguising sheath and leaned against the truck again, adopting a look of casual boredom.

Not a moment too soon—Sauer came around the side of the truck, barking, "Back inside! That means you too!" he added, giving his trademark glare at Hogan. Blitz sat back down on the left bench, still absorbed in his buttons. Sauer walked past the colonel around to the passenger side, noticing a slight list in the truck. He kicked the tire, testing its soundness, and Hogan held his breath . . . but nothing happened.

Well, the leak might take a while to develop enough to be noticeable, Hogan sighed to himself inwardly. As long as it did at some point before the train station, he'd be okay.

Sauer came back around and immediately took note that Hogan hadn't really moved. _"Inside!"_ he snarled.

Hogan had barely started to put weight on the step into the truck, when another bang happened, followed by a whoosh, and truck sagged down. He looked over at Sauer accusingly. "What'd you do now to that tire?!"

For the first time in the hour since Hogan had met him, Sauer sounded off his game. "Nothing!" he protested, honest puzzlement written all over his face. "I-I just kicked it with my foot!" he stammered.

"What're you using for rubber these days? Banana peels?" Hogan said derisively.

Sauer's defensiveness vanished as he stiffened his spine, switching back into full-on S.S. bastard mode. He stared menacingly at Hogan, and pointed his pistol straight at him, not three inches from his chest.

Hogan straightened up too, refusing to look intimidated though the threat might have been worrying—if he hadn't seen LeBeau emerge from the bushes, headed straight toward them.

"One more word from you," Sauer threatened, "and I'll—"

"No, you won't!" LeBeau snarled, poking his rifle right up at the base of Sauer's head, where it joined his neck. He meant serious business: there would be no surviving a shot there, as Sauer knew, given the look of shock and horror on his face. "Put your hands up!" LeBeau demanded, seizing Sauer's gun from his nerveless grip and handing it to Carter behind him, who took it and immediately moved to better cover Blitz in the truck with his own pistol.

Even as LeBeau had stopped Sauer, Newkirk and Kinch had dashed past them and Hogan toward front of truck to deal with Fritz and Nits. They now reappeared around the driver's side of the truck, herding the two S.S. guards in front of them. Bewilderment showed on their faces: as part of the elite S.S. they had never expected to have the tables turned on them here in the heartland of Nazism. Kinch ordered them in his fluent German, "All right, let's see how fast you can fix that tire," and pushed them on around to the side of the truck to deal with the newly flattened tire and the second spare.

Hogan regarded the four of them with relief compounded with affection. Freed from Crittendon, whom they had apparently left behind, they had competently taken care of the situation—and saved his bacon, of course. And hardly for the first time, at that. How could he ever have thought of leaving them?

LeBeau, his rifle still digging into the top of Sauer's spine, asked, "What do we do with them, Colonel?"

That, of course, was an important question, though Hogan already knew the answer. They couldn't be left free: that would endanger the operation, and preserving it was Hogan's primary mission. He had long ago agreed, though reluctantly, to turn over such prisoners to Bruner, the head of the local civilian underground. Bruner had insisted that this was a deal breaker in their work together. "Who but we Germans should judge in such cases? We will know who is a scared conscript, and who is one of Hitler's true believers. It is our job, not yours, Colonel." After checking with London, Hogan had agreed to the demand, though he worried about the summary justice that might follow. They had seldom been forced to adhere to that earlier agreement, but they were going to have to this time. Sauer's involvement in the murders of the escaped officers from Stalag Luft III left him feeling few scruples, however.

"We'll drop them off; let the underground take care of them," he answered LeBeau's query.

Carter grinned over at him. "Then can we drive over by the refinery and watch the explosion?"

Hogan grinned back, knowing that Carter was joking. Roll call was coming up, and they all had to be back at camp for an alibi—although he had no doubt that Carter would love to be on hand to watch the explosion as the bombs went off. When the refinery blew, that would make one hell of a fireball. He was pretty sure they would even be able to hear the explosion in camp, despite the distance. "No time for that, Carter," he reminded him, then decided to play with them just a bit. "I've gotta get home."

Newkirk's cheer dimmed noticeably. "Oh. Oh yeah, I forgot. I expect you're eager to go."

"Yes, I am," he answered seriously. He regarded them genially, then dropped his bombshell. "As the song says, be it ever so humble, there's no place like"—he paused for dramatic effect—"Stalag 13."

He savored the momentary confusion on Carter and Newkirk's faces, then the way they lit up as his meaning sank in. LeBeau added a thumb's up of approval, and even Kinch had a smile on his face, though he kept his eyes on the guards.

ooOoo

_Author's note: _

_1) Underground agent Bruner appears in "Hogan's Double Life." I've given him a lot more authority and influence than he seems to have in that episode. _

_2) The mass escape from Stalag Luft III (depicted in the movie __The Great Escape__) occurred on March 25, 1944. This story is set in early May of 1944; news of the executions was beginning to trickle through weeks later, since the British Foreign Secretary announced the news to the House of Commons on May 19, 1944. So Hogan could know of it. (Thanks to Sgt. Moffitt, who caught my typo on the dates! Now they make sense, whereas they did not on the day I published it.)_

_3) I have no idea if a truck of this type would carry a second spare, but in the episode Kinch does tell them to fix the second tire after they just changed the first, so I'm either assuming or pretending that it would._


	9. Chapter 9

"Where the hell is he?" Hogan asked, looking around in exasperation. Operating on the theory that Crittendon liked Carter best (and certainly Crittendon didn't annoy Carter the way he did everyone else), Hogan had sent Carter back along the route that the team had taken from the fallen tree, while the rest of them dropped off the prisoners and the truck on Bruner's farm.

Hogan had made sure to tell Bruner in Sauer's presence that he would see to it that the four missing S.S. guards would be blamed for the sabotage of the Berlin Express and the Kessling oil refinery that evening, so they had to be watched every minute until the explosion occurred. Bruner had assured him that they could take care of it. Hogan had taken a small vindictive pleasure in watching the trussed Sauer kick against his bonds at hearing that news. He wondered if it might influence Sauer and his comrades to turn against the Reich, knowing that they would be hunted men after this evening, but he doubted it—in Sauer's case, at any rate. The man was too much of a true believer in Nazi ideology. On the other hand, Sauer knew exactly how the system worked. He would know that he wouldn't have a chance if his superiors thought he was a saboteur. Well, Sauer was Bruner's problem now. Hogan had given him what chance he could—and it was more than a war criminal like Sauer deserved.

After leaving Bruner's farm, they had rendezvoused with Carter by the fallen tree where everyone had last seen Crittendon, but Carter reported that the English officer was nowhere to be found. It was, perhaps, too much to expect Crittendon to have stayed in one place waiting, although the others were sure that he hadn't followed them when they had set off to try their last-ditch attempt to stop the truck transporting Hogan to the train station.

"I was bringing up the rear and checked behind us several times, but never saw him," Kinch said with a shrug. "We didn't have the time to wait for him if we were going to catch your truck. I don't know why he didn't come along or where he went."

Hogan grunted with irritation. Time was ticking and they had to get back to Stalag 13 in time for roll call. "All right, let's get back to camp. Maybe we'll trip over him as we go."

But by the time they arrived back near the stalag they had seen no sign of the missing group captain. They approached camp cautiously: exiting and entering camp always had to be undertaken with care during daylight missions. While they didn't have to worry about avoiding search lights, they also didn't have the cover of darkness, and though there were more patrols at night (on the assumption that prisoners were most likely to plan escapes at night), they spotted movement in the woods more easily during the day.

As Hogan scanned the camp from a vantage point, he saw a commotion on the opposite side of camp, with guards running towards it. He didn't know what the distraction was, but he instantly took advantage of it.

"They've pulled the guards from this side of camp. Let's go!" he told the others. The group swiftly made for the emergency tunnel's tree stump exit, and Hogan kept watch as Kinch, then Carter, then LeBeau, and finally Newkirk slipped one by one into the safety of the tunnel before he took his own turn.

Olsen was waiting down below in the main chamber with the radio equipment, and he sighed with relief as the five of them entered. "I'm really happy to see you down here, sir," he said with a broad smile.

Hogan returned it with a grin of his own. "I'm even happier to be here," he said sincerely.

Olsen turned serious. "Just before you guys got here, Davis called down here with a report. He saw through the wire that the guards had captured Group Captain Crittendon on the opposite side of camp from the emergency tunnel entrance. Do you know why he was there?"

"Probably looking for the tunnel entrance," Newkirk answered, his voice laden with sarcasm. "He couldn't find a bell in a belfry."

Hogan nodded; as far as he could tell Crittendon had no sense of direction, so it would be just like him to make that kind of mistake. It was amazing enough that he had found his way back to camp on his own. "You guys get back into uniform, get up above and get seen," he told the rest of the team. It wasn't exactly an alibi for the afternoon hours they had been gone, but the sooner they were clearly placed in camp, the better.

Everyone began shedding their civilian clothes for their uniforms and they were about halfway through the process when Barnes came skittering down the ladder from the barracks above. "Hey Olsen— Oh! Colonel Hogan!" he smiled with relief.

"Something to report?" Hogan asked.

"Yes, sir! The guards just brought Group Captain Crittendon in through the front gate. Kommandant Klink just met him in the compound; he looked really mad, sir. He had Schultz take the Group Captain to the cooler."

Hogan crossed his arms around his stomach, looking down the tunnel entrance in a way that suggested to the others that he wasn't really seeing it as he thought through the implications of this news. Barnes shifted his feet uneasily; the rest of the team finished putting on their uniforms.

"All right," Hogan finally said. "Everyone upstairs—except you, Kinch. I need you to send a coded message to HQ."

"Sure, Colonel," Kinch answered as he finished tying his boots. He moved over to sit at the radio table as LeBeau ascended the ladder, followed by Olsen, Carter, Barnes, and finally Newkirk. "What's the message?"

"Papa Bear to Mama Bear. Request direct conference with Prince Charming at 1800."

Kinch nodded, writing it down and translating it into code. He looked up at his commanding officer a bit dubiously. "We'll all be at roll call then, Colonel."

Hogan nodded. "I can manage the direct transmission." His mouth quirked up. "You know I could handle the Morse key if I had to," he teased lightly.

"Yes sir," Kinch answered, but there was only a hint of his usual warmth in his eyes. He looked at Hogan searchingly, then added, "Do you mind if I ask what you'll be saying to General O'Malley, sir? Is it worth the risk of a direct transmission?"

Hogan put his hand on Kinch's shoulder in his old familiar gesture, hoping that it conveyed reassurance. Of all the bridges he needed to rebuild, he was pretty sure that the one with Kinch was going to be the hardest one to repair. Kinch was right that direct contact carried far more risk of detection than their coded Morse code bursts, and timing the transmission for a point when Kinch couldn't be down there to manage the radio might be suggesting that Hogan didn't trust him in some way to be there for it. But Hogan had decided that personal contact was essential to untangle the snafu, and he wasn't sure how the conversation would go. He wanted to protect his men as much as possible if the interview went badly.

"I have to convince him to let me stay; if I'm going against orders, I don't want any of you caught in the crossfire," he said seriously. "Crittendon's recapture should make it easier, though. I know I can get Klink to transfer him, which will leave it clear for me to stay here. We can get Crittendon out and back to London—if they want him. With Crittendon compromised, I'm hoping that O'Malley will see I need to stay in command here—if he was the one that signed off on my transfer in the first place. I've gotta get that straightened out. And I need to speak to him personally for that, even if it's risky." He squeezed Kinch's shoulder lightly and felt the taut muscles relax slightly beneath his hand.

"All right, sir." Kinch's smile was mostly in his eyes, but that was a good starting point. He put on his headset and reached over for the knob of the Morse key.

"One last thing, Kinch—what was Crittendon's code name?"

ooOoo

Hogan sat by the radio, watching the time for 1800 and musing over London's use of fairy tale names for its agents. Who was in charge of picking them out? An odd wartime job. He shifted his thoughts forward. If he could resolve the matter with O'Malley quickly, he could get out of the tunnel and onto the road to surrender to the guards and be back in custody before the bombs were set to detonate, at 1930. It was still dicey having been publicly out and unsupervised on the afternoon of the same day of such a big job, but his hand had been forced on that one.

The radio abruptly came live. "Prince Charming to Papa Bear, Prince Charming to Papa Bear. Come in, Papa Bear." O'Malley's voice, for sure.

Hogan picked up the hand set. "Papa Bear here, Prince Charming. Reynard has been caught by the Big Bad Wolf. Repeat, Reynard has been caught by the Big Bad Wolf."

There was a short pause, then O'Malley inquired, obviously puzzled, "It was planned for Reynard to be caught, Papa Bear."

Hogan shook his head, forgetting that O'Malley couldn't see him. "Reynard is compromised, Prince Charming. Big Bad Wolf won't let him stay in the Bears' Den. I'm requesting permission to remain here at the Den."

The pause was longer this time. "Are you sure, Papa Bear? The Giant had asked for your return."

This was it: once he said this, he was committed. "Very sure, Prince Charming. There's still much work to do. I'm needed here," he said firmly.

"Very well. Very good. I will make the necessary arrangements with the Giant." O'Malley's voice held a definite note of relief, Hogan noted. So he hadn't wanted to pull Hogan out: he'd been doing it at the request of the American high command. That still left the question of why they had wanted to withdraw him in the first place, but O'Malley sounded fairly certain he could overcome whatever objections there were.

"Should we retrieve and return Reynard?" Hogan asked.

Apparently O'Malley had accidentally retained his grip on the mic. Hogan overheard a distant curse, followed by a garbled ejaculation that sounded like "you sent _who_ over there?" Then O'Malley's voice came through more clearly. "No, Papa Bear. His retrieval is _not_ necessary. Ensure he is safe, but within Big Bad Wolf's custody."

Hmm, so even the British didn't want Crittendon back. Didn't sound like O'Malley had known exactly who had been chosen as the agent to replace him, either. A curious oversight, but maybe it made the snafu clearer. Maybe there was a second Crittendon in the RAF service? Whatever—Hogan was going to have to leave it in O'Malley's hands to clear up. But not having to return Crittendon to England simplified matters.

"Roger wilco," he answered cheerfully.

"My apologies for the difficulties," O'Malley replied obliquely. "I am very glad you remain where you are, Papa Bear."

"Yes, sir," Hogan smiled.

"Mama Bear, over and out."

"Papa Bear, over and out," Hogan answered. Well, that had gone smoothly. He turned off the radio and then checked his watch. He needed to get out of the tunnel and get captured—again. He sighed slightly wistfully. Freedom had certainly had its temptations. _Sorry, Mom; sorry, Dad. But you taught me to always finish my jobs_. He shook himself slightly. He knew where he needed to be now. He picked up the small cloth bag LeBeau had packed his belongings in, which he had retrieved from the truck before they hid it at Bruner's farm and stuck the swagger cane inside it so he'd have both his hands free. Then he looped it over his shoulder and set off down the tunnel.

ooOoo

Fifteen minutes later he got to the road that led to Stalag 13, at a far enough point that it would be believable that he had come from where he had left the truck, and began hiking toward camp. The afternoon was fading quickly into evening, and he wanted to be picked up before the sun set. Scanning the sun's lowering position in the sky as he walked, he thought that would be no problem; he was on schedule.

He heard the patrol before they saw him, so he slowed his walk so that they would be certain to see him. He was not best pleased, however, to see that it was led by Corporal Hahn as they emerged onto the road. He slowed down further, raised his hands up near his shoulders, and called out in German, "_Nicht schieβen!_" He didn't need them shooting at him when he was trying to surrender.

"_Halt!"_ Hahn called out before approaching him carefully, suspicion written all over his face, ordering the other two guards to cover the prisoner too. Hogan came to a complete stop, waiting and trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. Hahn looked down the road that Hogan had obviously come from, then back towards camp, clearly puzzled about why Hogan would be returning.

_There'll be a lot of that going around, Bub, _Hogan thought.

Hahn searched him thoroughly, a process Hogan gritted his teeth through, but finally stepped back, convinced Hogan had nothing on him that was dangerous. He circled back behind Hogan, then shoved him forward with his rifle muzzle with a sharp command to move.

Hogan complied. There was no point in antagonizing Hahn here. After a few steps he got another rifle shove.

"_Hände hoch!"_ Hahn ordered, sounding angrier.

Hogan raised his hands higher, up above his head, continuing to move forwards. _ It's not that far to camp_, he told himself. And indeed, in just a few minutes they came over the final hill in the road that led to the main gate and saw the whole of Stalag 13 laid out before them. The setting sun glinted off the barbed wire and the tin roof of the delousing station.

_Home sweet home_, Hogan said to himself ironically.

Hahn shouted at the guards inside, who ran to open the gates. As they stood there waiting, Hahn's rifle pushing hard against his spine, Hogan had an idea.

"I'm sorry about your sister," he said in German, quietly, then added, "My girlfriend died in the London Blitz; I know what it means to lose someone you care about to enemy bombing."

Calling Molly his girlfriend was, perhaps, something of an exaggeration: he had dated her perhaps three or four times before she and her sister were killed by a bomb in one of the many night raids on London. But he had deeply regretted the death of that lovely, spritely girl; his anger over her senseless death had certainly fueled his own anti-Nazi feelings at the time.

Hahn said nothing in return. When the gates finally opened, he harshly ordered Hogan inside—but he didn't push him with the rifle muzzle this time.

_Maybe one small step forward there. Or maybe not_, Hogan thought as he crossed through the gates and entered Stalag 13, a prisoner in its custody once again.

ooOoo

_Author's Note: One final chapter coming, on Wednesday._


	10. Chapter 10

The men milling around the compound, enjoying the last few moments outside before being sent into the barracks for the night, were arrested by the sight of their erstwhile CO being escorted into camp so soon after their new CO had been recaptured. Schultz came hurrying forward from the Kommandantur's porch as the little procession crossed the compound, clearly summoned by a call from the front gate. He stared at Hogan with obvious astonishment.

"Colonel Hogan, what are you doing here?"

Hogan shrugged. "Seemed like the right thing to do, Schultz. Can I put my hands down? I'm not going anywhere from here."

"_Ja_, of course, Colonel Hogan." After a flurried exchange of questions from Schultz and explanations from Hahn, Schultz added a few orders to the patrol, who all turned on their heels and headed back toward the gate and their regular patrol duty.

Once the colonel was safely in Schultz's hands, he was quickly surrounded by the prisoners in the compound: all the men of Barracks 2 plus those of several other barracks who had lingered outside to enjoy the last light of day.

"You're back, Colonel?" asked Nichols, a tall, lanky corporal from Barracks 3. "To stay?" he added wistfully.

"Yep, for better or worse," Hogan answered cheerfully.

"For richer or poorer," Perkins from Barracks 6 added slyly—always the joker that one.

"Don't go any further—I am _not_ marrying anyone, least of all you lot!" Hogan joked back, provoking laughter from those around him. His smile dimmed slightly and he looked around the group of forty or so men who surrounded him. He lifted his head up further. "I'm here for the duration," he announced firmly, so that they could all hear. That set off a cheer from everyone that lifted his heart.

Turning to Schultz, Hogan inquired genially, "So, I guess I need to see the Kommandant?"

"_Ja_, I should say so," Schultz answered, gazing at Hogan benevolently.

"I'll see you fellas later," Hogan promised the rest. He removing the swagger cane from his bag of possessions, then he handed the bag back to LeBeau, who took it with a delighted smile. Hogan followed Schultz over to the Kommandantur, climbing the familiar steps to the porch.

Schultz paused there. "Before we go in, Colonel Hogan, I think you should take this." He reached in his pocket and pulled out the list of needed medical supplies that Hogan had given him several hours earlier. He handed it over to Hogan, who took the folded paper with a curious kind of reverence, feeling a renewed commitment to what it represented as he did so.

He looked up at Schultz, to find the guard regarding him thoughtfully. Schultz gave a slight nod, then gestured politely towards the Kommandantur. "After you, if you please, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan opened the door and stepped into the outer office. Hilda was long gone home, of course, so Schultz went to knock on the Kommandant's door, while Hogan set the swagger stick down on her desk.

"Come in!" Klink sounded impatient.

Schultz opened the door. "Herr Kommandant, Colonel Hogan is here—"

"Tell him I have no time for him and his problems. Would I be working here at this hour if I did? Does he realize how much paperwork escape attempts create?"

_This is going to be fun._ Hogan grinned inwardly as he sauntered into the office and stood before Klink's desk. "That's terrible, sir. Why should you have to record everything? You Germans should relax, not get so caught up in all the little details."

Klink glanced up, nodding and seemingly glad that someone was sympathizing with him. "That would certainly be more convenient. But unlike your American army, Hogan, the German army runs on efficiency, and that means keeping track of all the details, in an effective, organized manner. So thanks to Group Captain Crittendon's escape attempt, I have mountains of paperwork to sort through: guards' reports, updating statistics, reports to Berlin in triplicate—it goes on and on! And you! Do you have any idea how much time it took me just this morning to arrange for your transfer, Hoooo—"

_Here it comes_, Hogan thought to himself, unable to resist smirking as comprehension dawned in the Kommandant's eyes.

"—GAAAN!" Klink's voice rose shrilly, at least four notes, as he rose to his feet, both hands clenching almost into fists and shaking impotently in front of him. "What are you doing _here_?" He turned his wrist to look at his watch. "You should be on the Berlin Express by now!"

"We had a little problem with a flat tire," Hogan explained.

"That explains nothing!" Klink snapped. "Where is your escort? Why did you come back here?"

"Well," Hogan crossed his arms around himself and launched into selling-the-explanation mode, "while the guards were fixing the flat tire, Lieutenant Sauer seemed very anxious. He kept looking at his watch—kinda like you, Kommandant. Finally, just when they'd got the new tire on, a couple of other guys came out of the woods. They had guns too. Now, I expected the goons—sorry, I mean the crack S.S. troops—would shoot them, but no, Lieutenant Sauer actually seemed glad to see them. They had some kind of conference off away from me, but I could overhear a few bits and pieces. Something about a big plan at 1930 tonight. Then the new guys asked what to do with me, and Sauer said something about it being too dangerous to take me. So they tossed my bag out of the truck and all got on it and drove off—leaving me stranded there in the middle of the road!" he finished indignantly.

Klink sat back down in his chair. "You are asking me to believe that a dedicated soldier like Lieutenant Sauer, and the men under his command as well, just abandoned their duty like that?"

Hogan shrugged. "That's what happened. It's up to you to decide whether to believe it, Kommandant."

Klink regarded him suspiciously. "Hogan, tell me, why did you come back here? You were free. I would expect you to be halfway to London by now."

Somehow that comment hit Hogan harder than he expected. He really could have been on his way there right at this moment. . . . _No_, he reminded himself silently. _I belong here for now_.

He answered testily, "I've been asking myself that same question." G_et back on script_, he told himself. "An invisible force seemed to be pulling me back. I guess," he paused for dramatic effect, "oh, it sounds silly." He lowered his arms and crossed his hands in front of him instead.

"What?"

"Oh, you'll just laugh."

"Please, I already laughed once this week." Klink said sarcastically, holding his right hand up then dropping it dismissively. "Hogan, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm back because I missed the old dungeon. You have no idea how I felt as I came over the hill and saw the sun setting beyond the machine gun turrets." Well, that part was true, anyway.

Funnily enough, that was the part that Klink was having trouble buying. "Hogan!" he barked in exasperation.

Hogan went into one of his wilder flights of fancy. "The barbed wire sparkling like spun gold, and the delousing station at twilight time," he ended sarcastically, recalling the sight of Stalag 13 from the top of the hill. Klink glared suspiciously at him. "Colonel Klink, this is a veritable paradise," Hogan added, as seriously as he could.

"Hogan, I don't believe one word of this," Klink shook his head and sank back into his chair. But he was apparently willing not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "It's as outrageous as what Group Captain Crittendon was trying to tell me this afternoon."

"Crittendon?" Hogan looked curious—as in fact he was. "What happened with him?" He shook his head. "I've never trusted him," he added sententiously—and with more than a shade of truth.

Klink shook his head. "I agree with you about Group Captain Crittendon. He cannot be trusted. You give him one inch, he'll take fifty yards. You know, he'd gotten that far when Schultz spotted him."

"You mean he tried to make a break? From the toughest POW camp in Germany?" Hogan injected the proper amount of incredulity into his voice.

"Well, he denied it of course. Said he was coming in, not going out," Klink replied, his own voice loaded with disbelief.

"Where is he now?" Hogan asked.

"In the cooler for the next thirty days. Oh, he's a menace. He's got to be locked up somewhere."

"You know he'll just try it again," Hogan warned. "He really believes it's every officer's duty to escape."

Klink nodded glumly, then looked up at Hogan, eyes narrowed. "If I see to it that he's locked up somewhere else, you would be senior officer again."

Hogan leaned forward, both hands on Klink's desk. "Who would you rather have in charge here: the guy who didn't say he would escape and then tried to, or the one that said he'd escape and then came back?"

For a long moment the two officers stared at each other, eye to eye.

Klink broke first. "I'll transfer him tomorrow," he said, looking down at his desk. "There is no room here for troublemakers!" he added with more spirit.

Hogan nodded. "We can do without him very nicely! But as senior officer, I should visit him in the cooler." He didn't especially want to, but he needed to let Crittendon know about London's orders.

"Very well," Klink said grudgingly. "You can have five minutes."

"Thanks," Hogan answered. "And one other thing, since I'm now going to be senior officer again." Picturing Landry's worn face, he pulled the list of medical supplies out of his pocket and put it down on Klink's desk. "Our medic gave me this list yesterday: we need all of these."

Klink picked up the list and scanned through it, pursing his lips. "I will see what I can do," he finally agreed. "I will contact the Red Cross as well as our headquarters, though I can promise nothing in particular," he warned.

Hogan nodded, figuring he would push harder later if Klink turned up short. He'd personally make sure Wilson got everything he needed for the men in this camp.

He wondered what time it was. Surely the time for the bombs to go off was fast approaching. He asked casually, "Incidentally, what time you got?"

Klink glanced at his watch once again. "Oh, it's . . . ah, 1929 and 40 seconds."

"Exactly?" Hogan asked with some irony.

"I just set it by my radio!" Klink answered defensively.

Abruptly the building shook, simultaneously with a distant but loud explosion, then a second and a third hard on its heels. _Sounds like a train and a refinery to me_, Hogan thought in satisfaction, grabbing the desk to steady himself. _But either it's early or Klink's watch is late_.

Klink likewise was holding onto the desk. "Hogan, what is it? What's happening?" he cried out, panicked.

Hogan went to the window, looking darkly off in distance where he could see a glow in the sky over the hill. "Your radio's 12 seconds slow," he answered.

"What has that got to do with it?!" Klink expostulated. His eyes widened and he pointed at Hogan. "Sauer?! You said they said they had a big plan for 1930 this evening!"

Hogan shrugged. Klink had made the connection: he'd pass it up the line as needed. Hogan wasn't feeling especially cooperative at the moment—but for his men, he'd have been on that train. So he just answered, "Who knows?" And he was still irritated with how Klink had crowed with delight over replacing him as senior officer. So he decided to take one small revenge on the Kommandant. "Oh, one other thing, Colonel," he said.

"What?"

Hogan lifted his right hand. "Chop, chop, chop," he said, suiting action to the words. Then he raised his hand in an ironic salute, turned and walked out of the office without waiting for a dismissal. Behind him, Klink glared and made his iron fist gesture, impotently.

ooOoo

A few minutes later, Hogan stood with Schultz outside the door of the cooler, watching him unlock the building door to let him in while he idly switched the swagger cane against his leg. He had picked it from the outer office; he would give it back to Crittendon. He certainly didn't want the silly thing.

The irony of visiting Crittendon the way Crittendon had visited him almost exactly 24 hours earlier wasn't lost on him. They had put Crittendon in Cell 3 too. Well, at least Crittendon would know that there was no getting out through a tunnel from that one. Still, Hogan felt uneasy, unsure of how to play this interview.

"Krüger!" Schultz called to the bored guard sitting outside Cell 3, watching its new occupant. The sergeant gestured for the private to come join him, giving the two Allied officers privacy.

Hogan walked down the corridor to stand in front of the same cell he had been imprisoned in just hours earlier. Crittendon stood up from the bunk and approached the door of the cell, his hands clasped behind him and his back ramrod straight. He was back in uniform. Hogan hoped that he was wearing his proper shirt this time, and not Hogan's one spare—which reminded him that he needed to get Newkirk to mend it, and his hat.

"Hogan, old boy. Didn't expect to see you back here," Crittendon said in ringing tones.

Hogan eyed him suspiciously. Which did Crittendon mean: that he expected Hogan was off to London—or that he had wound up on the Berlin Express after the failure of the initial rescue attempt? He decided not to ask.

"There's been a change of plan," he announced. There was no point in beating around the bush on his main message. "London's ordered me to stay in command here."

Crittendon went completely still. "I see," he said frostily. "I suppose you're having _me_ transferred now."

"That was Klink's decision, yes," Hogan temporized.

"Aided and abetted by you, I take it. Very nice turning of the tables." There was a definite note of resentment in his voice.

"Yes," Hogan admitted freely this time, lifting his head slightly. Crittendon returned his stare.

"All for the good of the operation, what?" the Englishman said. "So, Stalag 15 for _me_ then, I take it?"

Guilt gnawed at Hogan. Giving any fellow Allied officer over to the Germans didn't sit well with him—even Crittendon. But O'Malley had been clear: Crittendon was to remain in German custody. Probably HQ thought he'd be less of a danger to their own side there than back in England.

They were probably right.

"After my 'escape' this afternoon, we can't have yours occur tomorrow," he pointed out.

"Right. That would compromise the operation, wouldn't it. Jolly good. Well, I'll see what I can do with the chaps there," Crittendon continued on, looking past Hogan towards the far wall of the corridor. "There's always plenty of shaking up to do in a new camp. I'll get cracking and in no time I'm sure we'll have dug some tunnels. I'll arrange some escapes, beat Jerry at his own game. I'll be sending you some business here, no doubt; may even turn up myself."

Hogan sighed inwardly at the prospect. Given Crittendon's past record of coming to Stalag 13, that possibility seemed horribly likely. He was also certain that the enlisted men of Stalag 15 would not appreciate getting Crittendon as their senior officer. And yet, as much as he despised Crittendon's way of doing just about everything . . . he had to admit that there was a kind of bleak courage in Crittendon accepting his fate in this way.

"Why did you volunteer to come here?" he abruptly asked. "You were in England, could have set out the rest of the war doing needed work there."

Crittendon glanced at him. "I've done a desk job before. Just wanted a shot at the action this time, old boy. Lead men into battle, do my bit, make a difference in the war, you know." He swung his fist in front of his chest to emphasize his enthusiasm. "You had this all set up, I knew the operation. I got wind that you were leaving. Seemed like a perfect match."

Someone had told him Hogan was leaving—who? Well, there was no finding out from here. Hogan crossed his arms and directly challenged him. "Who told you I was leaving? And you can't seriously think you were prepared to take over here."

Crittendon stiffened further. "Of course, I was. May I remind you I have far more experience than you at this level of command? And I was asked through the proper channels of command. Really, Hogan, that's bad form, asking such a question. Bad show all around."

Hogan gave up in the face of all the clichés. Possibly the man's self-delusion was deep enough that there was no penetrating it, but more likely he was saving face and wouldn't admit to his own inability to command. Crittendon would never concede such a thing: he had too much pride. Hogan suspected that was how he had operated for years and why his career had stalled for so long before the war: he knew the scripts and could say all the right things, but he didn't have an original thought in his head and was completely inflexible, which sabotaged him every time he got beyond the basic program of any job.

It struck Hogan that Crittendon had a kind of reverse Midas touch: everything he did went wrong. Well, he would be transferred in the morning and no longer Hogan's headache. He didn't want anything bad to happen to Crittendon: he just wanted him out of his way—for the rest of the war and the rest of his life, if possible.

"Well, you'll want this in your new camp," he said, handing the swagger cane back to Crittendon through the bars. "You never know when it might be useful."

Crittendon looked at him warily, as if not sure Hogan meant the gesture, then took it from him. He caressed it lightly with his left hand, running along the length of the stick. "Thank you," he replied, his tone warming slightly. "That was one of my better ideas, was it not?"

"Yes," Hogan answered sincerely. It had helped delay Sauer a crucial few seconds; his men might have arrived just slightly too late without it.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz called down the hall apologetically. "It has been nearly ten minutes, and the Kommandant said you could have only five."

"Be right there, Schultz," Hogan called back, then looked back through the doorway of the cell. "Good night, Crittendon. I'll see you tomorrow before your transfer."

"Jolly good," Crittendon said, smiling slightly.

Hogan took a few steps toward the door, past the open door of Cell 2, then stopped and went in, grabbing the blanket on the bunk in it. He retraced his steps to Cell 3. "Here," he said, thrusting it through the bars of the door.

Crittendon took the extra blanket. "Thank you, Hogan." He sounded sincere.

Hogan simply nodded, then walked toward the world outside.

ooOoo

Schultz accompanied him as far as the door of Barracks 2. "Good night, Colonel Hogan," he said. "And please, no monkey business tonight. We have had enough for one day."

"I'm with you there," Hogan agreed, wondering yet again just how much Schultz knew or suspected. "Good night, Schultz."

He opened the door and stepped through. To his complete surprise, Carter shouted out, "Ten hut!" and every man in the barracks snapped to attention and a salute.

Straightening up, Hogan returned the salute and then called out, "At ease." As everyone returned to normal stance, he stared at them in astonishment. "What on earth? I told you guys the first week I was here I didn't need you doing that every time I entered the room."

Kinch stepped forward as spokesman. "Maybe you don't need us to do it all the time, sir, but tonight we needed to do it." His eyes were warm, and he was smiling.

Hogan looked around the barracks at all the familiar faces, all smiling at him now, and abruptly discovered he was having trouble swallowing around a lump in his throat. The barracks was full of delicious smells: he suddenly recognized laid out on the table all the food that Schultz had detailed he was to buy for Hogan's going away party.

"We thought we'd give you a welcome back party, _Colonel_," LeBeau said cheerfully. He handed him a mug with red wine inside it as everyone else picked up their own assorted tin cups and mugs.

"There was a terrible accident in the Kommandant's storeroom a bit ago," Newkirk explained cheerfully. "He must have lost four bottles of French wine from it."

Hogan grinned at the Englishman's ingenuity. "Such a shame," he deadpanned, then lifted his mug. The fragrant bouquet of a good vintage hit his nose and he smiled, then his smile faded slightly. He looked around the barracks, at all the men he valued so much. "I haven't done well by you over the past day"—he ignored their shaking heads—"but I'll make damned sure I do better for you in the future—for the duration. I propose a toast: to the men of Stalag 13, the best team in the combined Allied armies!"

"And to our Colonel," Kinch added, raising his glass, echoed by all the others. They passed around the toast, clinking mugs and cups, and together they drank, for health, and life, and luck.

The End

ooOoo

_Author's Note: Readers who know "Hogan Go Home" will note that my ending differs substantially from the ending of the original episode. In it, when Hogan returns to camp he and Klink talk outside the Kommandantur, and Klink informs him that he has already transferred Crittendon to Stalag 15, which appears to be news to Hogan. Although I had initially intended to end my story right where the original episode ended, the closer I got to finishing my revised version, the less plausible and satisfactory that original ending seemed. Given the insightful (and enormously useful!) questions from readers about Crittendon's real nature, some kind of final meeting between the two officers seemed needed. (Plus Klink arranging Crittendon's transfer so quickly appeared to contradict how I had set up Hogan's own transfer earlier.) Thus I moved the site of the meeting between Klink and Hogan into Klink's office (though I preserved most of their dialogue, albeit with a number of additions) and added the two final scenes of my story. I'm not sure that my resolution of the story definitively answered all the questions about Crittendon, although I have given Hogan's interpretation of him. Since the story is from Hogan's perspective, that seemed most suitable to me in the end—and, given that people are complex and sometimes inscrutable even to themselves, the slight ambiguity also seemed fitting to me. I hope readers will find it so too._

_I owe many thanks to Bill Davenport, whose original script for "Hogan Go Home" I have used and edited so heavily, and I am grateful (as are we all!) to the creators of the Hogan's Heroes series, of course. Thank you also to all the readers of this story, especially those whose perceptive questions and comments kept me thinking and revising my ideas on this story up to the very end. I'll give my own New Year's toast for you all tonight, for health and happiness and luck in 2015 and all the years beyond._


End file.
